


The Prophecy of Apollo

by ladyblahblah



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, Bonding, M/M, Pon Farr, Vulcan, Work In Progress, non-reformed Vulcan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the myth of Cupid and Psyche in _The Golden Ass_ by Apuleius, and the basics of that myth form the main plot arc for the story.  It's my very favorite Greek myth, and it was ridiculous amounts of fun figuring out how to translate it into Trek.

**Title:** The Prophecy of Apollo  
 **Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot (AU)  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** PG-13 (violence and language)  
 **Disclaimer:** My cats own all, I own nothing.  They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse.  Cats, you make terrible agents!  Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.  
 **Summary:** AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?  
 **Author's Note:** Well, the poll has spoken, and people have volunteered ARTS AND MUSICS OMG, so wait for the next Big Bang I shall not!  This story has been rattling around in my head for the better part of a year, and has finally demanded out.  The title is from the myth of Cupid and Psyche in _The Golden Ass_ by Apuleius, and the basics of that myth form the main plot arc for the story.  It's my very favorite Greek myth, and it was ridiculous amounts of fun figuring out how to translate it into Trek.  Anyone who wants to join in the fun, please do!  Arts for everyone!  
    Some businessy things: Vulcans here are not ones you'll recognize.  There are emotions on display, and out of control, and though logic is appreciated it's not remotely as revered as it is in the Trek you know and love.  There are several more differences in the world in general, though hopefully those will become clear in time as the story goes on.  Remember, though: AU.  Normal rules do not apply.  
    ETA: OMG LOOKIT THE BANNER [](http://anoncomment7.livejournal.com/profile)[**anoncomment7**](http://anoncomment7.livejournal.com/) MADE FOR ME IS IT NOT BEAUUUUUUUTIFUL?

 

  


 

 

 

  


_Let Psyche's corpse be clad in mourning weed  
And set on rock of yonder hill aloft:  
Her husband is no wight of human seed,  
But serpent dire and fierce as may be thought,  
Who flies with wings above in starry skies  
And doth subdue each thing with fiery flight.  
The gods themselves and powers that seem so wise  
With mighty Jove be subject to his might;  
The rivers black and deadly floods of pain  
And darkness eke as thrall to him remain._  
 _\--The Golden Ass_  
 

  


__  


 

 

Jim ducked, cursed, and drove the half-moon blade of his _lirpa_ hard at his assailant’s chest.

 

The air was thick with red dust kicked up by scores of trampling feet, and Jim could taste it at the back of his throat with every labored breath he managed. His band had moved in at twilight, when the heat of the day had faded slightly and Eridani’s light still reflected off of the L-langon Mountains, providing adequate visibility. Despite their precautions, however, the battle was taking its toll; with every moment that passed the odds shifted more in favor of the K’tash clan’s warriors. Even with the tri-ox compound that had been administered before they headed out, the Humans in their merry little band of mercenaries were tiring rapidly, and Jim was no exception.

 

His blade made contact with the Vulcan’s chest, slicing through armor and sinking deep into flesh with a spray of thick, green blood. The man dropped, and Jim took a moment’s pause to breathe and wipe some of the gore from his face.

 

It was a mistake, one he knew better than to make. His heartbeat of inattention ended when a thick leather strap flew over his head to tighten around his throat; he felt his feet leave the ground as he was hauled back against a wide chest. For an endless moment his hands scrabbled frantically, uselessly at the strap. Then his training kicked in and they dropped to his belt, fumbling for his knife. It was unlikely to do any good, he knew: the armor these bastards were wearing was thick and tough, so unless he got in an extremely lucky shot his knife would be about as effective as a bee sting. It was possible he could sever the _ahn-woon_ , but his vision was already beginning to darken around the edges and he didn’t love his chances.

 

A second warrior in the K’tash colors approached, _lirpa_ poised to strike. Jim had very nearly resigned himself to the fact that he was well and truly fucked this time when the advancing Vulcan’s eyes went wide and a long, flat blade burst out of his chest. He fell with a gurgling, choking sound, and Sulu yanked his sword free with a twist of his wrist that flung droplets of blood in a wide arc.

 

“No gloves!” he shouted as another warrior closed on him, and Jim immediately slashed backwards with his knife, aiming for where he could feel strong fists digging into the back of his neck.

 

A blood-curdling scream sounded directly in his ear as the pressure abruptly eased, sending him tumbling to the ground. Jim coughed and choked, trying to draw air into his starving lungs through a half-crushed windpipe. The warrior who had been choking him a moment before was still screaming at the long gashes over both of his hands; Jim’s _lirpa_ was lying within reach, but he’d never be able to lift it yet. Instead his fist closed around the bloody end of the abandoned _ahn-woon_ , and he struck out with all the force he could muster. The heavy metal weight at the end struck the injured Vulcan square in the temple and he dropped like a bag of stones, dead or unconscious but either way out of the fight for now.

 

Jim hauled himself to his feet, dragging his _lirpa_ with him as he maneuvered until he was back to back with Sulu. “Pike?” he yelled.

 

“Holding the far side. We just have to—”

 

An inhuman, enraged scream rent the air even above the din of battle, and Jim looked frantically around in time to see a figure in their own colors fall. There was a crackle of static inside his helmet, and then Pike’s voice was shouting in his ear.

 

“ _Clear a path, people! For fuck’s sake, get the_ hell _out of her way!”_

 

The screaming hadn’t stopped, and it was growing closer with every passing moment. Jim grabbed Sulu by the shoulder and hauled him to one side, striking out again with his borrowed _ahn-woon_ whenever an enemy soldier presented himself in close enough range. Another K’tash body fell five meters to his left; T’Pring didn’t spare him so much as a glance as she wrenched her _lirpa_ free and sprinted off. Her helmet was gone, and her long dark hair trailed behind her like smoke.

 

“Stonn must’ve gone down,” Jim called to Sulu. “Can you see him?”

 

“No. I think she found him, though: it looks like she’s stopped.”

 

Jim glanced over and saw that Sulu was right: T’Pring was prowling back and forth now, her face contorted with rage and splattered in green gore as she slashed fiercely at anyone who approached. One warrior nearly succeeded in drawing her out, darting and feinting until she was two, then three steps away. Behind her another K’tash stepped in, his _lirpa_ raised to strike at the body on the ground. Suddenly T’Pring sent her own blade flashing forward, darting inside her opponent’s guard and slicing across the thin strip of exposed flesh at his throat. The momentum from her strike turned into a complicated twisting turn, and less than a full second later the blunt end of her weapon connected with the second Vulcan’s head in a savage uppercut that flung him back almost two full meters.

 

The entire thing happened in the space of three breaths.

 

Jim tore his attention away from the bloody scene and took stock of his surroundings. Much of the K’tash contingent had fallen, but there had been more here than they had expected and too many were still up and fighting. He was in the middle of wondering where the hell Beta Team was when his helmet crackled again and Pike’s voice bellowed in his ear.

 

“ _DROP!_ ”

 

There was no more warning than that. None was needed. Their entire team hit the ground as one, Stonn yanking the helmetless T’Pring down to sprawl beside him. There was a moment’s confusion, and then the _whirr thump_ of several dozen arrows finding their targets. A body fell next to Jim, the Vulcan’s eyes wide and unseeing, and Jim scrambled back from the blood that was pouring out onto the sand. Beta Team’s arrows had punched right through the thick Vulcan armor, just as Scotty had said they would.

 

“Nice.” He heard Sulu shifting to his right and looked over to find his friend grinning at him, gesturing at the bright _kara_ feathers that formed the arrows’ fletching. “I like the blue.”

 

“ _All right, team,”_ Pike’s voice crackled, _“safe to stand. Time to do the mopping up.”_

 

It was a routine sweep of the camp after that, in the baffling mix of callousness and emotionalism that Jim had yet to grow quite accustomed to even three years in. The camp and all its assorted bits and pieces was considered fair game: rations, equipment and personal items alike were swept up to be catalogued back at the base until all that remained were the bits that weren’t worth taking.

 

Meanwhile, the bodies of the fallen were treated to the full measure of respect that was due to them as warriors. Small pyres were built from the cache of _tir-nuk_ wood that every Vulcan camp stockpiled, for their own deaths or those of their enemies. Stonn, his side bandaged, stood supported by T’Pring as he recited ceremonial words as others tossed fragrant packets of _hla-meth_ onto the fires. The now-familiar funeral dirge echoed back from the nearby mountains as the last of the day’s light faded and the funeral rites came to an end.

 

“Fucking creepy,” Sulu muttered when the last squad leader had made her report and departed. “I hate twilight strikes; at least when we fight at dawn they’re not doing that in the goddamned dark.”

 

Jim snorted. “You’re just pissed off you’re not invited.”

 

“It’s separatist bullshit and you know it,” Sulu replied without bothering to deny the allegation. “Pike’s unit’s supposed to be all about integration, isn’t it? But every time we fight they all strike out into the desert and snarl at any Human that gets within fifty meters. What if one of us wanted to pay his respects?”

 

“Then you do it after they’re finished,” Jim said firmly. “Their planet, their rules, and don’t forget it. Vulcans are the ones who pay us, so they’re the ones who say how things get run. C’mon, man, you know all this.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

 

“Fair enough,” Jim shrugged. “But you know,” he added with a leer, “there’s more than one way to integrate.”

 

Sulu just snorted. “And as soon as we get a female Vulcan recruit who isn’t a conceited, bonded _bitch_ I’ll be more than happy to do some integrating. In the meantime I’ll just have to keep waiting for the next leave.”

 

“Suit yourself, but I’d recommend trying a little bit more flexibility.” He shook his head. “We’ll talk about your heterosexual rut later; right now I’ve gotta get these reports to the captain. Make yourself useful and start people loading up the mules. Hopefully we can get back to base as soon as the funeral’s finished, because I’m freakin’ _starving_.”

 

Pike was busy in what had been the K’tash commander’s tent, filling a satchel with PADDs and rolls of thick _dun-yar_ paper. He looked up as Jim entered. “Just the man I was looking for. Gonna have some work for you when we get back to base.”

 

“Coded?” Jim snagged a PADD from the makeshift table in the center of the tent and scrolled through the initial menu.

 

“Looks like it. I don’t know what the real story here was, but it sure as shit wasn’t the simple little raiding party we were expecting.”

 

“Bad intel?” Jim frowned. “Or a set-up?”

 

“Let’s pray to any gods that might be listening that it’s the first. If T’Sain’s decided to screw us around, we’re pretty well fucked.” Pike shook his head. “But however it’s playing out, I want to know before we find ourselves flung into another situation that overreaches our expectations. Now.” He took the PADD that Jim had picked up and nodded to the one that the younger man still held. “Report.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Jim glanced at the screen. “Ten wounded, but only six of those are serious enough to be a concern and all of them can hold until we make it back to base. I’d guess there’s probably another dozen or so who’ve failed to report something relatively minor. Not too bad, all things considered.”

 

“Supplies?”

 

“Seem pretty standard. Should supplement our own well enough, but I no one’s found anything particularly exciting as far as I’ve heard.”

 

“Very good, soldier.” Pike hauled the satchel up over his shoulder. “Mules are loaded?”

 

“Sulu’s seeing to it. You know we’re going to have to pry him away from the things when we make it back to base.”

 

“Well.” Pike clapped him on the back, sending a cloud of red dust flying. “That’s what I have my field sergeant for.”

 

Beta Team had beat them back, and by the time the rest of the unit arrived the celebration was already well underway. Jim hung back to see that the _Ifis-hali_ barges—the ‘mules’ as most of their Human contingent had taken to calling them—were all anchored and accounted for. He didn’t quite have to pry Sulu’s fingers away from the controls, but it was a close thing. The privilege of rank came into play then, and he drafted a dozen of the able-bodied to haul their take to the supply tent while he headed for his own tent.

 

Stripping out of his armor after a battle was always a moment worth savoring, but Jim only let himself indulge for a few moments. Cleaning his armor and weapons would take a good twenty minutes, even with the start he’d made on the trip back, and the longer he dawdled the longer it would be until he got something to eat. The smell of cooking meat was almost a torment; after canned and dried food for weeks, Jim was more than ready to take advantage of their monthly supply run to Shi’Kahr. He seriously needed a bath, but that would have to wait. Pike probably wouldn’t need him to get started on hacking the K’tash tech before morning, but Jim wasn’t about to count on that and risk another reconstituted dinner.

 

The main cooking fire at the center of the camp was crowded and noisy—unsurprising, since this was where the enticing smell of roasting meat was originating. Along with a half-dozen pots of what smelled like fresh vegetable stew, some large unfamiliar animal had been spitted over the fire. The attendants turning it were keeping the hungry crowd at bay with warnings that it wasn’t finished cooking yet, so Jim snagged a bowl of stew and a slab of bread that had probably been baked fresh that morning.

 

“Jim!” He looked over to see Chekov waving to him from halfway across the fire. Jim headed over, noting as he went that Scotty was there as well, pouring something violently green into Chekov’s cup. Most of Beta Team was surrounding them, all talking animatedly amongst themselves.

 

“Hey, Pavel,” Jim said with a nod, and sent the rest of the group a pointed look. “You guys sure took your sweet time tonight.”

 

To his surprise, there was a chorus of delighted laughter in response. “They had a bit of a distraction on the way there,” Scotty supplied when no other answer was forthcoming, topping off his own cup from the flask he held.

 

“It was little Pavel’s big day!” Lokar rumbled, reaching out with one gloved hand to ruffle Chekov’s curls.

 

“I killed a _le-matya_!” Chekov said excitedly, gesturing to the fire, and Jim’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“No shit?” He looked back at the carcass that was slowly roasting and let out a low whistle. “They’re bigger than I thought.”

 

“It jumped us on our vay to the lookout.” Chekov’s eyes were bright with excitement and, Jim was sure, a decent amount of Scotty’s favored _saya_. “Ve had to take more time to make sure its mate vas not in the area.”

 

“One shot,” Lokar said in admiration, his hand now clasped firmly over Chekov’s shoulder. “Straight through the eye at twenty meters.”

 

“Mr. Scott’s arrows are wery good,” Chekov said, and Stelen snorted.

 

“You are a skilled shot,” he countered warmly. “The arrows are an asset, certainly, but it takes a steady hand and a keen eye to manage what you have done.”

 

“Aye, lad,” Scotty agreed. “Don’t be afraid to do a bit of braggin’.”

 

“They say that I vill keep the pelt,” Chekov confided excitedly. “Because it vas my kill.”

 

“And a fine kill it was,” Kintha added.

 

Jim didn’t bother trying to hide his smile. When Chekov had joined their unit two years ago, it had been an unspoken rule that his age made him off-limits. Even the Vulcans, with their relatively relaxed standards, had asserted that a child had no business being involved in mating. If the looks he was getting now were any indication, though, it looked like those days were quickly drawing to a close. Jim figured Lokar had the edge, but Stelen might just give him a run for his money. Either way, the kid was probably going to be knee-deep in suitors before the month was out.

 

“Make sure to show me that pelt after it’s been tanned,” Jim grinned. “Now I’m gonna find somewhere to sit and eat this stuff before it goes cold, and see a lady about a bet.” With his free hand he flashed a discreet sign at Scotty, and the other man nodded. He’d keep an eye on the kid and make sure that the herbal liquor didn’t carry away his judgement. Reassured, Jim set off for one of the smaller fires scattered throughout the camp.

 

“Well, look what the _sehlat_ dragged in.” Uhura looked up from polishing the last of her knives, the others lined up neatly on a blanket on the ground in front of her. “Come to bring me dinner? That’s so _sweet_.”

 

“Not so fast,” Jim cautioned, holding bowl and bread out of her reach with a superior smile. “Two and a half.”

 

“And a _half_?” Uhura raised her eyebrows. “How does that work, exactly?”

 

“Sulu got the kill.” Jim settled onto a free spot on one of the flat rock seats that ringed the fire. “But only because I provided a cunning distraction by getting garroted by another one of the bastards. Call it an assist.”

 

“Only you, Kirk,” she laughed, “would try to spin almost getting asphyxiated as a _cunning distraction_.” Uhura inspected the her knife once more before she nodded in satisfaction and slipped it into her boot. “Not that it matters,” she added with a smirk, securing the rest of her blades in the half-dozen sheathes hidden across her body. “I got three.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“Ask Syrrik,” she said smugly. “He was there the whole time, saw all three.”

 

“He’s hardly an impartial witness,” Jim grumbled. “He wants to get in your pants.”

 

“Oh, honey, who _doesn’t_?” She took the food that Jim grudgingly held out. “So thoughtful. And remember, it’s ten credits per.”

 

“I remember, I remember.” He dug into his pocket for his money and counted out thirty credits, handing them over with a mournful look at the stew that Uhura was already spooning up. “I knew I should’ve eaten before I came over.”

 

“Live and learn,” Uhura said with a sweet smile.

 

“And cultivate generous friendships.” An inhumanly warm body settled next to him, and a moment later Jim found a new bowl of stew being pressed into his hands.

 

“Sava.” Jim smiled in triumphant gratitude. “Your timing’s impeccable. Thanks.”

 

“It is my pleasure; I had twenty credits wagered on Uhura, _istaya t’nash-veh_.” The firelight painted Sava’s skin the color of polished bronze, and the appreciation in his eyes was undisguised as they scanned Jim’s face.

 

“UT didn’t pick that one up,” Uhura remarked, abandoning her food to pick up the PADD sitting beside her.

 

“ ‘My desire,’ ” Sava provided, his gaze never leaving Jim’s. “Have you given my proposal further consideration, Jim?”

 

“It’s . . . tempting.” Jim’s eyes slid over the Vulcan’s body in turn. “But sort of a daunting prospect.”

 

“I do not wish to press you to a hasty decision, but my Time draws near.” Sava leaned a breath closer, his heat an enticing lure in the rapidly cooling night. “Come to my tent tonight,” he suggested with an inviting smile. “Let me see if I can not tempt you further.”

 

“No use in doing so.” They all looked up at the sound of T’Pring’s voice as she approached. Unlike the rest of them she had taken the time to fully bathe; her hair gleamed in the firelight, dark waves that tumbled down her back. “He has several of you all sniffing after him; he will pit you against each other until you fight like _krinti_ over a bone.”

 

“Well I won’t now that my evil scheme has been revealed,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

 

“Healer Telev is seeing to Stonn’s injuries. I do not require the near-constant nourishment that an inferior Human metabolism requires. I have taken the time to wash so that others may not be offended by my stench.” She lifted an eyebrow with a cold, pointed smile. “In short, no. I have nothing more pressing to occupy my time than ensuring that my fellow Vulcans do not defile themselves by choosing to couple with a Human during their Time.”

 

“We do not all share your distaste for Human mates,” Sava said calmly, and his eyes slid over Jim again in a nearly tangible caress. “I would be honored should such a creature choose to fill my bed.”

 

T’Pring visibly shuddered in revulsion. “I would sooner mate a dumb beast than a barely-sentient savage such as these.”

 

“Now hold on,” Jim chided mildly. “I like Stonn; you really shouldn’t talk about him that way.”

 

T’Pring snarled and took a step forward, but Uhura was faster. “Lovely to talk to you as always,” she said, wrapping a hand around Jim’s arm and hauling him to his feet, “but Jim’s needed in the medical tent just now.”

 

“He will be in greater need if he does not learn to see to his mouth,” T’Pring snapped.

 

“And _I’ll_ have to report you to Pike if you make another threat against your teammate,” Uhura shot back.

 

“She is right, T’Pring.” Sava rose to his feet, casually but unmistakably lending the full weight of his presence. “You overstep yourself.”

 

T’Pring stared at Sava for a moment, the disdain in her eyes only slightly less than what she directed at Jim and Uhura. Then a slow smile crept across her face, and she was coldly lovely once more.

 

“Of course,” she murmured, inclining her head agreeably. “I misspoke. By all means, Kirk, accept Sava’s offer.” Icy eyes locked on him again as her smile widened. “It would certainly be agreeable to me to witness the aftermath.”

 

“Are you insane?” Uhura hissed at Jim as she dragged him away. “What part of taunting the vicious, Human-hating Vulcan seemed like a _good_ idea, exactly?”

 

“Pretty much all of it, actually. Where are we going?” he demanded.

 

“I already said, you’re needed in the med tent.”

 

Jim rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

 

“Did you or did you not tell me ten minutes ago that you were almost choked to death earlier tonight? You’ve had some food, so your stomach won’t seize like it did last time you got hypoed with anything besides tri-ox.”

 

“You,” Jim said slowly, “are a sneaky bitch.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere. I promised Chris I’d get you in for a once-over when we got back, and like hell are you getting me to break my word.”

 

“You know, you could’ve just led with ‘Chris wants to give you a once-over’ and I’d have gone along willingly.”

 

“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” McCoy reminded him as they stepped into the med tent. “Your raid’s over so I doubt Pike would bitch _too_ much if I injected you with something nasty.”

 

“Think again, Bones; codes to crack, enemy security to reduce to rubble. Lots to do.” Uhura released his arm at last and Jim sauntered over to the table where Christine Chapel was wrapping up Sulu’s ribs. “I heard you wanted to see me, gorgeous?”

 

“I wanted you hauled in here because Len will gripe until he’s verified you came home in one piece otherwise,” she snorted without so much as looking up. “If you’d come in right away you might’ve had me patching you up; as it is, I’ll leave you to my husband’s tender mercies.”

 

“Tough luck, Jim,” Sulu grinned, though his smug look was ruined with a wince when Christine tugged the bandage taut. “Looks like I got the good-looking one.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jim said slyly. “I don’t mind putting myself in the doc’s capable hands.”

 

“Cut that out,” McCoy snapped, “and get over here so I can make sure you’re not dying.”

 

“Sweet talker,” Jim laughed, but obligingly hopped up onto the free bed.

 

“Well, what’s the damage this time?” McCoy asked, tilting Jim’s head up with one surprisingly gentle hand to shine a light into his eyes.

 

“Scrapes and bruises, mostly. I’m really fine.”

 

“He almost got choked to death.” Uhura smiled when Jim glared at her, lifting one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Not much point in lying; he’d figure it out on his own.”

 

“Don’t _you_ have anything better to do?”

 

“ _Is_ there anything better than bothering you? T’Pring may have actually had a point there.”

 

“You had a run in with her, too?” Sulu rolled his eyes. “She was in here a few minutes ago checking on Stonn. It’s too bad, really; she’d be so hot if she weren’t such a raging bitch. I don’t envy the two of you,” he said, glancing back and forth between McCoy and Christine.

 

“Why?” Jim frowned. “Something happen?”

 

“Tried to give her the _required_ physical, since Telev’s still busy with Stonn over there,” McCoy said, nodding towards the other side of the tent. “Had a look on her face the whole time like I’d washed my hands with garbage. Chin up.”

 

“I’m fine,” Jim insisted again, but tilted his head back so that McCoy could pass a scanner over his throat. “It hardly even hurts.”

 

“I’m sorry,” McCoy said, “was I asleep when you got a medical license of your very own? No? Then shut up and let me do my job so I can find out if you’re _actually_ fine.” He scowled as he read the results on the tricorder. “Damned bat-crazy planet,” he muttered. “Can’t use phasers like any other civilized society; no, have to give me _lirpas_ and goddamned _ahn-woons_ to clean up after, the tradition-obsessed bastards.”

 

“Dr. McCoy.” They all glanced over at the sound of Healer Telev’s voice; the thin, dark-skinned Vulcan stared back inscrutably from the other side of the tent. “I am willing to make certain concessions in the interest of a harmonious working environment. However, I will have to ask you to choose between allowing flirtations with you and your wife, or maligning my culture’s traditions. Both together, I am afraid, is too much for me to bear with equanimity.”

 

“My apologies.” McCoy sounded gruff but sincere as he turned to face the Healer directly. “I’ve been acting like a jackass, haven’t I?”

 

Telev broke into a smile. “You have, indeed. Given the circumstances, however, I can hardly blame you. The next time T’Pring comes in for an examination, I would recommend gagging her.”

 

Christine made a noise that might have been choked-back laughter, but her gaze darted nervously to the occupied bed behind Telev. “I know he’s in a healing trance, but . . . you _did_ say that he would remain aware of what was going on around him, didn’t you?”

 

Telev raised an eyebrow. “If Stonn has remained unaware until this moment of how T’Pring is widely regarded, then he is more of a fool than I had believed.”

 

Jim laughed at that, and was about to hop down off of the table when McCoy turned back to him. “Not so fast. Have you eaten?”

 

“Oh come on, Bones,” Jim groaned, but McCoy just rolled his eyes.  
  
"Don't be an infant.  Now, are you going to take your painkillers and dermal regeneration like a man, or do I need to hold you down and administer a sedative?”

 

Jim glanced at Telev again. “Why don’t you decide between bitching about Vulcan custom and letting people hit on you and Chris before I answer that?”

 

McCoy rolled his eyes again and jabbed the hypospray Christine handed him against Jim’s neck, none too gently but well clear of the bruises that ringed Jim’s throat. The hum of the dermal regenerator started up, shockingly loud in the small space.

 

Christine looked at McCoy, frowning in confusion, and then at the machine still silent and inactive.

 

“Outside,” Jim said sharply, and jumped down from the table. He, Uhura and Sulu were pushing aside the entry flap a moment later. Jim stopped short, sending the others colliding against his back as he stared up into the sky. “Fucking hell,” he rasped.

 

“Are those . . .?” Sulu pushed forward, his eyes wide as he tracked the sleek, light aircrafts streaking through the sky above the camp. “Those are _Zephyrs_. Terran-made; Cochran Enterprises’ latest. These weren’t supposed to make it to Vulcan for another two years at least. There are _dozens_ of them. How the hell . . .”

 

“Shit,” Jim breathed. “The K’tash. Isn’t Lord Sarek supposed to be bonded to a Human?”

 

“No way,” Uhura said, but her voice was unsure and unsteady. “That’s just a legend; propaganda to unsettle the other clans. Vulcans don’t bond with Humans. All the evidence says they _can’t_ , even if they wanted to.”

 

Jim took off for the center of camp without waiting to see if his friends followed. He had to find Pike. He had a sinking feeling that the size of the camp they’d hit earlier had just been explained, and if that was the case there was no time to stand around gawking. He rounded the corner of a tent just in time to see Pike and his wife burst out of theirs, strapping on weapons as they went. Number One was still favoring her left foot and the injury that had kept her out of battle today, but her eyes were bright with challenge and she gripped her _ahn-woon_ in a deceptively loose, practiced grip.

 

The alarms began to sound too late; unfamiliar guards were already marching in among their own unarmed men and women, taking uncontested control of the camp in a matter of moments. If the ones that Jim could see were representative there must have been easily a hundred of them; even armed, Pike’s complement of thirty-odd Humans and Vulcans would be grotesquely outmatched.

 

One of the soldiers, his armor accented by a broad purple sash tied around his waist, stepped forward to meet Pike.

 

“Greetings,” he said with a shallow bow, “from S’chn T’gai Sarek, High Warlord of the K’tash clan. On his authority, we have come for the one named T’Pring. Surrender her now, or suffer annihilation.”  
  
  
[>>Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68507.html)

 

  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am astonished at my own self-discipline.  Lookit, another chapter of something I've _already_ started instead of beginning another story!  ~~Nevermind that there's something new sitting on my computer right now.  Shush, that's not important.~~   Many incredibly delighted thanks to everyone who's contributed art so far!  (Like the beautiful banner that [](http://anoncomment7.livejournal.com/profile)[**anoncomment7**](http://anoncomment7.livejournal.com/) made for me!)  Any art that gets created will be linked in the appropriate chapter, as well as in the masterpost at the end, whenever that is. ^_^  (P.S. [](http://chaosraven.livejournal.com/profile)[**chaosraven**](http://chaosraven.livejournal.com/) , I haven't forgotten about your generous offer; I still have to draw up a basic outline, but I will try to get that to you posthaste!)

 

 

Word was already spreading in hushed whispers through the ranks as Pike held up one hand in a wary gesture.

 

“Hold on,” he said, his voice taking on the hard, authoritative tone that could make over thirty fully-grown Vulcan warriors snap to instant attention. “Just hold on one goddamned minute. What do you mean, _surrender_ T’Pring? Who the hell are you and what do you want with her?”

 

“With respect,” the K’tash Vulcan said with a shallow nod, “I am S’chn T’masu Sakkint, a _nes’qlil Kar-lan_ of Warlord Sarek’s standing army, and what we require of the _maat-fam_ T’Pring is no concern of yours.”

 

“The fuck it’s not,” Pike spat. “ _My_ name is Captain Christopher Pike, and this is my unit. T’Pring is one of my soldiers, which makes her quite _decidedly_ my concern.”

 

“I see.” Sakkint sent his eyes sweeping over Pike in a quick, measuring glance. “That is . . . regrettable. However—”

 

“It is a moot point.” T’Pring pushed her way through a group of soldiers, planting herself halfway between Pike and Sakkint in a bristling display of arrogant defiance. “You have come for nothing. My ties with your master were severed over ten years ago.”

 

Sakkint angled his body to regard T’Pring, and his expression didn’t change. “We are aware,” he said simply, and frustrated anger flashed over her face.

 

“I have a mate,” she snarled; Sakkint dipped his head in acknowledgement.

 

“We are aware of that, as well. However, should he succumb to his own mortality, your mind will be free to bond again.”

 

T’Pring actually staggered back a step at that, as though the words had dealt her a physical blow. “You would not dare,” she rasped.

 

“To fulfill my master’s orders and spare his son from the flames of an unfulfilled _pon farr_ , I would dare a great deal,” Sakkint snapped. “Every other attempt to secure him a mate has failed. Retrieving you is a final, desperate hope; be assured that I take no pleasure in the prospect of what I must do.”

 

“And may you take assurance that _I_ shall take _great_ pleasure in what I must do,” she snarled. “I will fight you to my dying breath to keep Stonn safe. If, by some miracle, you _do_ manage to kill him while sparing my life, I will bond with your freak of a master and then flee to the Mountains of Gol. I will seek the mindmasters there to give them personal insult, and as the blood boils in my veins I will die laughing, knowing that the _abomination_ I am bound to shares every moment of my agony.”

 

Sakkint’s eyes flashed, and he had begun to step forward with a feral growl when a phaser blast struck the ground at his feet. He came to a stumbling halt, eyes wide, to see Number One standing with her _ahn-woon_ gripped in one hand and a phaser in the other.

 

“ _Wu’ri-dorli_ ,” he spat. “Such weapons are not for _beyi-t’naehm_ ; fight as a warrior or do not fight at all.”

 

“This isn’t _beyi-t’naehm_ ,” she shot back, still holding her phaser at the ready.

 

The Vulcan term for field battles was yet another that hadn’t been submitted for inclusion in the Universal Translation database, but that—along with her deadly skill with knives—was why Pike had wanted Nyota Uhura on his team. Languages were her passion, and she was on constant alert to supplement their UT chips with newly translated words. Even their own teammates were of little help; Vulcans in general scorned the use of Standard, and without memorizing the list of submitted words were usually unable to differentiate between what had been translated and what had not.

 

“This is an attempted abduction,” Number One continued, “and we will defend our people by any means necessary. So instead of spilling more blood, how about we all take a deep fucking breath and talk like calm, _reasonable_ beings?” Sakkint’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. “Excellent. Now, if you’ll permit me to voice an opinion, I have to say that it seems unnecessarily foolhardy to insist on a mate for your master who would quite clearly be willing to kill him at the first available opportunity.”

 

“Eager,” T’Pring snarled, but a harsh glance from Pike snapped her mouth sullenly shut.

 

“Your position is a foolish one,” Sakkint said in what was very nearly a reasonable tone. “Your current mate has been all but disowned from his clan. Lord Spock could offer you greater wealth, greater protection; you would go from being _maat-fam_ to being the consort of the heir to the K’tash Warlord. It is understandable that you did not wish to waste your life awaiting that which might have never happened. However, now that it has—”

 

“It’s still her choice to make,” Pike cut in harshly. “I thought mental compatibility was supposed to be important in these cases. Her mind,” he said, pointing at T’Pring, “sure as hell doesn’t seem compatible.”

 

Sakkint sighed, and some of the tension drained out of his frame. “No, it does not. We had hoped to find her more . . . malleable. Unfortunately, that is of little consequence. My Lord Spock’s Time grows dangerously near, and I have been instructed to fetch him a mate within the week.”

 

“ _A_ mate?” Jim jumped in, and stepped forward despite the disbelieving, hostile look that the K’tash representatives sent him. “Not necessarily her specifically?” He and Pike traded a glance; they were on the same page here, Jim could tell. When no one seemed inclined to chastise Jim for speaking out of turn, Sakkint narrowed his eyes but addressed the question.

 

“As I said, all attempts to find an alternate mate have failed. All others have been rejected; it was hoped that, as T’Pring once served as Lord Spock’s _koon’ul-veh_ , that she would be acceptable.”

 

“But it’s possible that someone else could serve instead,” Pike clarified, and Sakkint inclined his head.

 

“There is, I suppose, a slim possibility.”

 

“So,” Pike continued slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought, “if we could come up with someone else . . .”

 

Sakkint’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You believe that there is one in your camp who would suit?”

 

“I think it’s worth a shot. I’ve worked with T’Pring for almost five years; I can guarantee you, she doesn’t make idle threats.”

 

“I see.” Sakkint’s gaze didn’t waver from Pike’s for several long moments; then he gave a sharp nod and lifted one hand in a gesture that sent the closest K’tash warriors into immediate retreat. “Very well,” he said, his voice clipped and stern. “You have until dawn. If, at that time, you have been unable to provide an acceptable substitute, we will take the _maat-fam_ T’Pring by force and slaughter every creature within this camp. As your lieutenant insists that we are not engaged in _beyi-t’naehm_ , you will not be slain as warriors, and will receive none of the considerations accorded to those of that rank. Your bodies will be left for the beasts and your _katras_ for the _sirshos’im_.” He sketched a shallow bow. “May your thoughts be swift.”

 

He turned and strode from the camp with the confidence born in the knowledge that countless weapons were covering his exit. Pike’s people, still weaponless and surrounded on all sides, could do nothing but let him pass.

 

“T’Pring,” Pike barked as soon as the last K’tash warrior was well out of sight. “How long until sunrise?”

 

“Four point eight seven hours,” she said.

 

Jim made the calculations that had become automatic in the past two years on this planet. Just under seven Terran hours to figure out how to keep them all from dying horribly. Great. No problem.

 

“Number One, T’Pring, Jim, with me.” Pike turned to the next closest person in his range of vision. “Go tell Healer Telev I require him,” he told Uhura; “I get the feeling we’re going to want his expertise. The rest of you,” he called out, “business as usual. Spread the word.”

 

As Uhura began to back away she caught Jim’s eye and flashed him a quick hand signal: she had something she had to tell him. It would have to wait. He followed the others into Pike’s tent, positioning himself as far away from T’Pring as he could manage. In the camp around them there would be activity as their teammates prepared for battle. Pike tossed his _lirpa_ onto the table next to their pilfered PADDs and plans, but Jim noted that he kept his phaser strapped to his hip.

 

“All right, son.” Pike braced his hands against the table and leaned forward, eyes hard and bright as he stared at Jim. “You’re the best strategist I have, and it sounded out there like you have an idea. Let’s have it.”

 

For just a moment, Jim hesitated. Then he glanced across the tent and nodded at T’Pring. “Her.”

 

Number One frowned as T’Pring snarled and looked like she was ready to start forward. “Not an option, Jim,” was the sharp reply.

 

“Not like that.” He shrugged. “But she’s the only one who’s actually met the guy. She used to be his _koon’ul-veh_ , whatever the hell that is, so I’m guessing she’s touched his mind at least once. If anyone’s going to know what he’ll accept and what he won’t, it’ll be her.”

 

“Sensible.” Pike pushed away from the table again. “What do you think, T’Pring? Do you think you can find someone that’ll do for your ex?”

 

T’Pring’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I do not wish to. Perhaps I wish to see him consumed by the flames of his Time with no hope of easing his suffering.”

 

“If that’s the case,” Pike said coldly, drawing his phaser, “then I’ll hand you over to those K’tash bastards myself. I’d rather not, but if it comes down to a choice between you and the other thirty-eight souls in this unit I won’t hesitate. Is that understood?”

 

“I stood as my own champion in the _kal-if-fee_ ,” T’Pring snapped. “I slew Lord Spock’s champion in bloody battle to belong to no one but myself. He did not burn, yet he wished me to _wait_ , in case one day he might. Now he does, and it has _nothing to do with me_. I will _not_ go to him; not for his ease, not for any reason but to kill him as someone should have done at his birth.”

 

“Well then here’s a thought,” Jim spat. “How about you stop being a selfish, self-absorbed bitch for _five fucking minutes_ and help us figure out how to keep _anyone_ from dying? At least _try_ to remember that you’re not just saving the man you hate; you’re saving the one you love, too. Or does Stonn’s life mean that little to you?”

 

“You have no clue, Human.” T’Pring’s voice was unsteady, her hands clenched into trembling fists. “You _cannot_ know what he is to me.”

 

“Then stop wallowing in self-pitying misery and _help him_.”

 

T’Pring looked around the tent at the three Humans staring steadily back at her, and with a rippling growl began to pace. “It is not so simple,” she said eventually. “I am . . .” She looked away. “I am afraid,” she said quietly. “It is . . . it is difficult to think clearly.”

 

“We’ll see if—Healer Telev,” Number One greeted in clear relief when the Vulcan slipped into the tent. “T’Pring is experiencing some unease; is there anything you can do?”

 

“I do not want—”

 

“I do not care,” Telev cut her off. “Your distress is disturbing Stonn; it threatens to wake him prematurely from his healing trance. Now be still.”

 

T’Pring obeyed with gratifying swiftness, and Telev came forward to position his hand over her psi points. A moment later her eyes fluttered shut and she sagged in visible relief. Telev held the meld for nearly a minute; then he pulled away, and T’Pring’s eyes opened again. She blinked slowly, her face as calm as Jim had ever seen it.

 

“Everything okay?” Pike asked carefully, and after a second’s delay she turned to him, inclining her head.

 

“I am calm.”

 

“I’ve had to put up several mental blocks,” Telev explained. “They have slowed her thoughts somewhat, but her mind is otherwise unimpaired.”

 

“How strong are these blocks?” Pike wanted to know. Telev frowned.

 

“As strong as I am capable of making them. Her fear and anger were quite overwhelming.”

 

“All right. I guess we’ll just have to hope they hold.” Pike fixed Telev with a hard, penetrating stare. “I need to know if it’s possible to break the bond she has with Stonn.”

 

T’Pring’s entire body seemed to quake, and they all held their breath. A moment later she had subsided, however, with only a slight frown.

 

“No,” she said quietly. “No, you can not.”

 

“Telev?” Pike demanded.

 

The healer swallowed, clearly trying to school the horror that was painted all over his face. “It is . . . theoretically, yes. It would require the cooperation of at least one of the parties, however. Or death,” he amended.

 

“We’re trying to avoid that second option if at all possible,” Pike said dryly. “T’Pring obviously isn’t going to agree. Stonn?”

 

“Yes.” Telev nodded thoughtfully. “His mind is the stronger of the two, in any case. If he could be convinced—”

 

“ _No_ ,” T’Pring said again, though with little more force than she had first managed. She blinked slowly again, as though drugged. “You can not. He is mine.”

 

“Chris,” Number One protested, and Pike sent her an apologetic look.

 

“It’ll be our last resort. But if we can’t come up with a substitute, maybe we can at least keep the K’tash from killing Stonn. Killing all of us. Do you understand, T’Pring?” He turned back to her. “Even if we can’t save you, we might still be able to save Stonn.”

 

She shuddered again. “I . . .” Then she frowned, and nodded. “Yes. Save him.”

 

“We’re going to try.” Pike sighed. “Now what can you do to _help_ us?”

 

“Help.” T’Pring moved forward to sink onto the stool that sat across the table from Pike. “Spock’s mind is . . . twisted. Malformed, as is his appearance.” She shook her head. “I can not imagine a Vulcan mind that could tolerate it, or be tolerated.”

 

An electric surge seemed to pass through the tent as the same thought occurred to all of them at once, but it was Telev who spoke. “It is said that Lord Sarek’s mate is Human.”

 

“Yes.” T’Pring nodded. “Spock is a hybrid; a halfbreed. Conceived in a lab, an experiment gone wrong. But Lord Sarek’s elder son was killed in battle, and he is mindlessly protective of his only remaining child. Instead of allowing him to be culled he has hidden him away. I saw him on the day of our _Telen t’Kanlar_ ; I believe I am one of very few sentient creatures to have seen him and survive. He stays sequestered in his fortress at all times, out of sight. He did not even deign to answer the _kal-if-fee_ himself, but sent a representative for me to fight.”

 

“Half Human.” Telev’s eyebrows lifted. “It is, perhaps, possible.”

 

“You mean to send him a _Human_ to slake his flames?” T’Pring’s laughter rang throughout the tent, bright and cruel. “Kinder to send them into a _le-matya_ ’s lair. He will tear them apart.”

 

“Maybe,” Pike mused. “Or maybe a little humanity is exactly what he needs.”

 

To Jim’s surprise, T’Pring sobered and looked to be giving the idea serious, if muddled, thought. “You’ve touched his mind,” he prompted. “What do you think?”

 

“It is something I had never considered,” she said, but after a moment she began to nod slowly. “There were distinctly Human aspects to his thoughts; perhaps even more than I had believed. Yes . . . I suppose it is possible.”

 

“Well, that’s the first hurdle . . . spotted, I guess,” Number One said, dropping down onto a free stool. “Now we just have to figure out if any one of the nine Humans in this camp is capable of surviving _pon farr_ with a Vulcan/Human hybrid.” She cast a wry glance at her husband. “You know, we never had to deal with shit like this before we started taking long-term contracts.”

 

He snorted. “No shit. All right. Nine candidates.”

 

“Five,” Jim corrected. “Unless our married couples are cool with one of them dying, because that seems like the only way the K’tash will break up a committed pair.”

 

“Not necessarily,” Pike pointed out. “Human couples don’t share the mental bond that Vulcans do; they’re capable of having sex with someone else without doing damage to their partner.”

 

“Irrelevant,” Telev said. “Slaying a bonded rival is avoided when possible, but not unheard of. To take someone when their mate yet lives, however, would never even occur to most Vulcans. If they were to take one of you, or either of my medical colleagues, you may be assured that they would ensure that there was no potential challenger left alive.”

 

“It hardly matters,” Jim said impatiently. “None of you are the type for extramarital affairs, and whoever goes into this has to be fully committed.”

 

Pike nodded. “Fair point. T’Pring?”

 

Brow furrowed in thought, she remained lost in thought for several long moments. “Uhura,” she said at last, “might serve. Though she would have to overcome her regrettable instinct to challenge any attempt to master her.”

 

Jim just barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes at that blatant bit of hypocrisy as Number One snorted. “Yeah, I don’t really see that happening.”

 

“Her mind is strong,” Telev protested, “and her mental control admirable. I believe she would be capable of the submission required.”

 

“With someone she cared about, absolutely,” Pike said. “But Number One’s right; it’s Uhura’s nature to fight tooth and nail against any threat. She might be able to manage it, but I’d rather not stake her life on the chance.”

 

“Even so, I believe—”

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

Four pairs of eyes shot to Jim in an instant, wide and disbelieving.

 

“Now hold on—”

 

“I mean it,” he said, and though he hadn’t been sure until that moment, as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew that they were true. “I’m the most logical choice,” he explained. “I’m unattached, which automatically makes me a better choice than either Uhura or Scotty.” The glances exchanged among the others told him that he hadn’t been the only one to notice how close those two had gotten lately. “Sulu isn’t attracted to men; Chekov’s hardly more than a kid. I’m tough enough to take a beating and get up afterwards.” His gaze found Pike’s. “And I know how to stop fighting when I have to,” he added, ignoring the pain that sparked in the older man’s eyes.

 

“All of that is well and good,” T’Pring offered, “but Spock will not care for logistics. If you are not suitable, he will likely kill you. You are, in fact, quite unlikely to survive.”

 

“Maybe so. But let’s face it, I’m the most expendable one here. I’m nothing all that special when it comes to hand-to-hand; I don’t have Chekov’s eye for sharp shooting; I’m sure as hell not the mad scientist engineer that Scotty is. Between the two of you,” he said, glancing between the two older Humans, “you’ve already got more of a strategic advantage than anyone you’ll come up against, and you can find another hacker easily enough.” Jim spread his hands. “And I’m volunteering,” he finished.

 

“Jim.” Pike looked like he wanted to argue, but Jim knew that he wouldn’t. _Couldn’t_. Nothing that Jim had said was anything but true, and he knew it.

 

“You are mad,” T’Pring mused thoughtfully, “or a fool. Or both.”

 

“Thanks for the insight.” Jim turned to Telev. “So how do we know if I have a shot at being compatible?”

 

“Without access to Lord Spock’s mind?” Telev shook his head. “I have never attempted such a diagnostic before. Though perhaps . . .” He shifted his gaze to T’Pring, considering. “You were his _koon’ul-veh_ ; though that link has been broken, you should still carry the traces of his mind in yours. An inefficient method of measuring compatibility, perhaps, but as I believe Dr. McCoy would say, ‘beggars can not be choosers’.”

 

Despite everything, T’Pring managed to curl her lip in distaste. “You wish for me to touch _this one’s_ thoughts?”

 

“Jim’s offering to risk his life for yours,” Pike said quietly, and the temperature suddenly seemed to plummet several degrees. Jim had never heard his voice so cold; even T’Pring was taken aback. “So you’re going to shut the fuck up and pretend you’re worth the sacrifice.”

 

“You need not meld with him yourself,” Telev said into the tense silence that fell once Pike had finished. “In fact, it would be for the best if you did not. Stand in front of me, both of you.”

 

Jim swallowed back the panic that wanted to rise and stepped forward to stand before the healer. Despite having lived and worked with Vulcans for the past several years, he still felt a Human’s instinctive unease towards telepathic contact. He would have to accept the intrusion with this Lord Spock, however, so he summoned the core of strength that had seen him through until he’d joined Pike’s unit when he was seventeen and stood calmly. He could feel the heat of Vulcan bodies beside and in front of him as his eyes slipped closed; a moment later Telev’s hot, dry fingertips pressed against his face and Jim did his best to keep his mind open and passive.

 

It reminded him of Bones’s examinations—the touch of a foreign mind in his was startling, but Telev’s thoughts were firm and gentle, careful as he did . . . whatever it was he was doing. To Jim’s relief he couldn’t feel T’Pring’s mind at all, or didn’t know it if he could. He wondered, briefly, what exactly the healer was looking for. Then he gave a mental shrug and simply waited, focusing on the feel of Telev’s fingers pressed against his skin, rooting himself as firmly as possible in they physical.

  
When he felt the fingertips draw away Jim opened his eyes. “Well?”

 

“It seems . . .” Telev seemed unsure, glancing from Jim to T’Pring and back again. “With such limited information . . . but from what I can sense, your minds would seem to be compatible enough for you to see him through his Time. In theory, at least.”

 

“I don’t like this, Jim,” Pike said with a scowl. “Theory isn’t good enough.”

 

“It’s the best we’ve got.” Jim tried for his usual cocky smirk, though it felt more like a grimace on his face. “Besides, I’m a tough son of a bitch. I’ll be fine.”

 

Pike shook his head. “Somehow I don’t think this was what your dad meant when he told me to look after you,” he said, and Jim had to laugh at that.

 

“Probably not, no. But this is my decision to make; I figure he’d respect that, anyway.” He took a deep breath. “I’m gonna make the rounds, say goodbye to some people. And get some food; I’m still fucking starving.” He glanced at the PADDs still cluttering the table. “I’d like to take a crack at those, too, in a little while.”

 

“You should try to get some sleep,” Number One said. Like her husband, she looked torn between tears and a killing rage, and like him she was holding it together with hard-nosed determination. Jim smiled at her; she’d been in the unit when he joined up, and she’d felt like family even before she and Pike had gotten married.

 

“Don’t think that’s very likely to happen. It’ll help to have something productive to do.” He nodded at them. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

 

He had just exited the tent when a strong, hot hand closed around his arm. He turned in surprise to look at T’Pring in open confusion.

 

“We do not care for each other,” she said, and Jim raised his eyebrows at what might have been the most colossal understatement he’d ever heard. “Why are you willing to risk your life for me?”

 

“It’s not just for you,” he said, pulling his arm free. “The people in this camp, the ones who’ll die at sunrise if we don’t find a replacement for you—they’re my friends. I know you don’t really understand the concept, but I don’t really care. I’m doing this for them.” He took a step away, paused. “And maybe I think even _you_ deserve better than what they’re threatening,” he added.

 

The astonished look on T’Pring’s face as he walked away might, he thought, be worth this entire insane situation.

 

As always, Jim was astonished at how quickly word spread around the camp. The news had arrived at the cooking fire ahead of him; he could tell by the silently horrified looks he received along with an almost obscenely large portion of roasted meat carved off of the _le-matya_ ’s flank. While he accepted his teammates’ commiseration and commendations of his bravery Telev must have reached the medical tent, and by the time he moved off to find a quieter place to eat, Sulu, Uhura and McCoy had tracked him down.

 

“Goddamn it, Jim,” McCoy snapped, “are you out of your damned mind?”

 

“Bones,” Jim sighed. “Can we not do this? You’re not talking me out of it.”

 

“And why the hell—”

 

“Bones.” Sulu laid a hand on his arm and shook his head and McCoy fell silent, though still fuming. Sulu turned to Jim. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he said bluntly, “but you don’t usually seem to have a death wish, so I’m guessing there wasn’t much of a choice involved here.”

 

“Not really.” Jim lowered himself onto the bench he had abandoned earlier. “No good ones, anyway.”

 

“I don’t like it,” Uhura said, frowning. “I mean, this entire situation; something’s not right.”

 

Jim snorted. “The whole thing is fucked beyond all recognition.”

 

“Not just that, halfwit,” she shot back absently, and Jim couldn’t help grinning. “Something about the words they’re using.”

 

“Lot of things not getting picked up by the UT,” Sulu agreed, but Uhura shook her head.

 

“Not those. Jim, whenever Sava’s propositioned you in the past he’s said _katelau_. When that Sakkint bastard was talking, though, he only used that half the time. It was something else the rest of the time— _tel_ -something.”

 

Jim shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it; you have a better ear for those things than I do. I can never drown out the UT enough to hear what they’re actually saying.” He took a bite. “But why does that matter?”

 

“I don’t know,” she said, obviously frustrated. “I don’t know that it _does_ matter. But both words are getting translated as ‘mate’, and you know how fond Vulcans are of just giving us the bare bones of the language. I think there’s more going on here than we realize.”

 

“Just what I need. Okay,” Jim sighed. “Let Pike know, and try to work it out while I’m gone. _Pon farr_ usually lasts about three days, right?”

 

“From everything we’ve seen,” McCoy agreed.

 

“So I should be back within the week, if I’m coming back at all.” He tried for a smile again. “I’ll do my best to play nice; you make sure there’s something interesting waiting when I come back.”

 

The rest of the night passed in fits and starts. The minutes seemed to drag on for hours, then abruptly fly by like seconds. Jim had unlocked half of the PADDs that they had taken from the K’tash camp by the time the first traces of light began to appear in the sky.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he assured Pike, clasping a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “He’ll take one look at me and fall head over heels.”

 

“Placing a lot of stock in those pretty looks, aren’t you, kid?” Pike snorted, and pulled him into a hard hug. “Your father would be proud of you,” he whispered fiercely.

 

“Probably not quite the act of heroism he would’ve anticipated,” Jim tried to quip before he had to set his jaw against the flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He clapped Pike on the back and pulled away. “Don’t give away my stuff just yet; I’ll be back in a few days.”

 

Sakkint was waiting at the southern edge of the camp, backed by the mountains that were beginning to take on the rosy glow of sunrise. He lifted an eyebrow as Jim approached.

 

“So.” Jim raised an eyebrow of his own. “Where are we headed?”

 

Sakkint took a moment to look Jim over from head to toe, and something like an approving smile tilted up one corner of his lips.

 

“My Lord Spock’s stronghold lies above Da’kum’Ulcha. We are headed to the City of Shadows.”

 

 


	3. The Prophecy of Apollo, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um . . . I didn't _actually_ say that Spock was showing up in this part, did I?  I'm pretty sure I ~~meant~~ said the next part.  Yeah. -_-  Blame it on the cold meds I was on while writing the last half of this, and the fact that none of the characters would just shut up already.  Anyone who's wondering (as I'm sure you ALL ARE), the bathing room was inspired by part of _The Broken Kingdoms_ by N. K. Jemisin.  If you haven't already, go and read it.  For realsies.

**Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot (AU)  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** PG-13 (violence and language)  
 **Disclaimer:** My cats own all, I own nothing.  They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse.  Cats, you make terrible agents!  Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.  
 **Summary:** AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?  
 **Author's Note:** So, um . . . I didn't _actually_ say that Spock was showing up in this part, did I?  I'm pretty sure I ~~meant~~ said the next part.  Yeah. -_-  Blame it on the cold meds I was on while writing the last half of this, and the fact that none of the characters would just shut up already.  Anyone who's wondering (as I'm sure you ALL ARE), the bathing room was inspired by part of _The Broken Kingdoms_ by N. K. Jemisin.  If you haven't already, go and read it.  For realsies.  
 **Author's Note 2, The Fanart Edition:**   OMGYG PEOPLE HAVE MADE ME ARTS I THINK I MIGHT PASS OUT!  Seriously, there are _so many_ talented people out there, and so many of them have drawn me beautiful things!  I present them to you now in chronological order, story-wise.  (All links go to my Photobucket account, so as to have them all gathered in one convenient location.  If any of you would prefer a link to your own account, just let me know!  Thanks again!)  
[In This Hidden Place](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v58/Not_An_Addict/Fanarts/in_this_hidden_place_by_abadea-d34su3b.jpg) by [](http://abadea.livejournal.com/profile)[**abadea**](http://abadea.livejournal.com/)    
[What Have I Gotten Myself Into](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v58/Not_An_Addict/Fanarts/what_have_i_gotten_myself_into_by_zara2148-d34vut3.jpg) by [](http://zara2148.livejournal.com/profile)[**zara2148**](http://zara2148.livejournal.com/)    
[I'm Good](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v58/Not_An_Addict/Fanarts/000186f5.jpg) by [](http://slanted-edges.livejournal.com/profile)[**slanted_edges**](http://slanted-edges.livejournal.com/)    
[Rinse Away](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v58/Not_An_Addict/Fanarts/00019r3w.jpg) by [](http://slanted-edges.livejournal.com/profile)[**slanted_edges**](http://slanted-edges.livejournal.com/)    
[Sleeping Jim](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v58/Not_An_Addict/Fanarts/help_holls___sacrifice_by_not_sleeping-d32nwyh.jpg) by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[**nix_this**](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/)  (the one that started it all; yes, I'm blaming you)

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/67370.html) | [Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68507.html)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The _Zephyr_ that Sakkint led him to was absolutely beautiful, pure poetry in engineering. It was as similar to the pack-animal serviceability of the _Ifis-halis_ as a full-blooded Arabian was to a draft horse: similar in overall concept, but astonishingly different in execution. All sleek lines and breathless speed, it lifted from the sand with hardly a whisper of sound, and Jim thought wryly that Sulu and Scotty would both likely be willing to kill to get their hands on one of these machines. He was so caught up in the effortless grace of takeoff that it took him a moment to realize that theirs was the only one of the dozens of sleek crafts making a move to depart.

 

“Hold on.” Jim nearly reached out to clasp a hand on Sakkint’s shoulder, but his better instincts prevailed. “Wait. The others aren’t—”

  
“They will remain here,” Sakkint said, removing his helmet to reveal the long hair that marked him as a warrior of rank and standing. The tone of his voice made it clear that he was questioning Jim’s mental capabilities. “It is possible that T’Pring may still be required; if that is the case, they will be in position to retrieve her quickly.”

 

“That wasn’t the deal,” Jim said angrily, and Sakkint lifted an eyebrow.

 

“It was agreed that we would leave her if your unit could provide a suitable replacement to see Lord Spock through his Time. Whether or not you will serve has yet to be determined. If you do, we shall withdraw; if you do not, she will need to be retrieved as swiftly as possible in order to preserve his life.”

 

“Fuck,” Jim muttered, running a hand through his hair. “ _Fuck_. So it might not even _matter_ if I don’t . . .” He forced himself to stop and breathe deeply, seeking that reserve of calm at his core yet again. He couldn’t afford to panic, not now. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “I’ll just have to be suitable, then.” He turned back to Sakkint, calmly piloting his way over the bright sands. “Any advice on that front?”

 

“I regret to say that I am aware of no way to make oneself a suitable mate for my master’s son,” Sakkint said stiffly.

 

Jim, who had grown fairly adept at reading Vulcans after two years on the planet and nearly three years with T’Pring and Stonn on Pike’s team before that, raised his eyebrows.

 

“Oh. Right.” Suddenly very aware of the fact that he was alone on this ship with a potentially jealous rejected Vulcan, Jim let his hand fall to rest casually near the phaser strapped to his hip. “You, ah . . . you have feelings for him?”

 

Sakkint scowled at him in irritation. “I presume that is your Terran Standard attempt to inquire after a possible romantic attachment on my part. If that is the case, then the answer is no. I am already bonded.”

 

Jim felt like an idiot. Of course he was; Vulcans didn’t allow unbonded males in their armies, for precisely this reason. Unbonded and entering _pon farr_ , Vulcan males could be extremely dangerous, as likely to turn on their comrades as their enemies. Jim had gotten the distinct impression that every family that had hired them over the past two years thought that Pike was more than a little crazy to allow so many of those unbonded warriors serve in his unit. They hired them anyway, of course, but it seemed that they never quite shook the idea that the entire unit was seconds away from snapping and killing them all.

 

“Lord Spock is my commander,” Sakkint continued, “and the son of my master; to serve him in this way would have been an honor. I admit, however, that my only regret is that we have been unable to find a suitable mate been found for him.”

 

Jim took a moment to digest that. “How bad is this?” he asked quietly. “What I’m walking into, I mean.” He hesitated. “T’Pring seems to think he’s a monster.”

 

“The _maat-fam_ should take more care in voicing her opinions,” Sakkint snapped.

 

“You’re not wrong,” Jim snorted. “But,” he added, “I can’t help but notice that you’re not exactly contradicting her, either.”

 

Silence fell for several long moments. “There are . . . stories,” the answer came at last. Sakkint’s gaze remained firmly on the viewscreen in front of him. “Nothing more; there _can_ be nothing more,” he admitted. “Lord Spock does not leave the solitude of his stronghold, and none are foolish enough to seek him there. But very occasionally, those few who saw him in his childhood speak of him.”

 

“Hold on a minute,” Jim frowned. “You said that others had tried to offer themselves as potential partners, right? They must’ve seen him.”

 

“There were measures taken,” Sakkint said, the barest hint of unease audible in his voice. “Perhaps, if you are found worthy of being his mate, he will show himself to you.” He glanced at Jim, then away. “Perhaps not.”

 

Jim was kept from pursuing that rather ominous suggestion by something that had been preoccupying him almost from the beginning. “And if I’m not? If it turns out I’m not a good enough match, what happens then? Will he let me go?”

 

Sakkint hesitated again. “In the beginning, he may have done so, but he is near the end of his Time now. There are many Vulcans in your unit; have you ever witnessed a _pon farr_ left too long unfulfilled?”

 

Jim shook his head. “There have always been . . . ah, outlets. Our medical team keeps records of everyone’s cycle, and Pike grants leave in one of the cities. Some of them have approached me about being their partner,” he added, watching Sakkint carefully to monitor his reaction, but the Vulcan only nodded thoughtfully.

 

“For those who find their best gratification with males, it would be a preferable solution, I imagine. A _pon farr_ between two unbonded males is dangerous—what starts as a fire in one can become a blaze that consumes them both. More often than not, they begin to see each other as rivals instead of mates, and tear each other to shreds. Unbonded, most males will seek a female in their Time regardless of their usual preference; a Human male whose mind would remain uncontaminated by the _plak tow_ would be a fine prize indeed.”

 

“What the hell’s a _plak tow_?” Jim asked with a frown.

 

“It is the blood fever; the final stage of the _pon farr_ , when all reason and control are stripped away.” Sakkint made a final adjustment to the controls and turned to face Jim then, something almost like pity in his eyes. “It is the stage that my Lord Spock approaches with ever-growing swiftness. His control erodes with each passing hour, control that is already compromised by the strain that his heritage puts upon his mind. In the beginning, he may have let you go; now, I fear . . .” He shook his head. “If he accepts you as his mate, you will likely survive. If not, I doubt that he will retain the presence of mind to see you as anything other than a threat.”

 

Jim had spent enough time among Vulcans, has seen them in combat enough times, to understand what Sakkint hadn’t said. Vulcan strength—probably still at least twice that of a Human’s, even with one Human parent—driven by the terrifying depths of rage that Jim had only seen fully unleashed a handful of times but would never, ever forget. Trapped in close quarters, weaponless, defenseless, with a beast whose very mention sent flickers of fear through the eyes of hardened warriors. Fear that had already begun to simmer in his gut burst into full flame, and Jim could actually feel himself growing pale as he realized that the odds on him making it out of this alive were so long as to be hardly worth contemplating.

 

“I had assumed . . .” Sakkint scowled and muttered something under his breath that the UT didn’t pick up and Jim could hardly hear anyway. “It was irresponsible for you to be sent without full understanding.” He stared at Jim, openly considering him. “You were not in full possession of the facts before agreeing,” he said slowly. “If you wish to return to your camp, I will take you back now.”

 

Jim bit back the instinctive agreement that tried to rise to his lips and forced himself to stop, to think. “If I do that,” he said at last, “will you try to take T’Pring?”

 

“We will not merely try,” Sakkint replied, though his voice sounded almost kind. “We _will_ take her. Though we will try to keep the casualties to a minimum; you have my word on that.”

 

Back to square one, then, and icy terror in his veins be damned, Jim’s mind was made up as easily as that. “No,” he said, quietly. Then again, more firmly, “No. If it comes down to a choice between me and everyone else in that camp . . . fuck.” He sat back wearily, scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “It’s no choice at all.”

 

“Are you certain? I can quite easily—”

 

“Turn this ship around and I’ll knock you out and pilot it myself,” Jim said icily. He lifted his eyes to Sakkint’s, ready for a fight, and was surprised to see something like respect on the Vulcan’s face.

 

“You would try,” was all he said, however, and turned back to the controls.

 

Jim sighed. “How far is it to . . . what did you call it? Da . . . something?”

 

“Da’kum’Ulcha. At our present speed, we should arrive there by midday.”

 

“Right,” Jim said with a frown as something tugged at his memory. “Why does that place sound familiar? You called it the City of Shadows before; I’d swear I’d heard that before.”

 

“It is likely. Your unit has been stationed in this area for some time; any Vulcan would know the name, and wish to keep well clear of the place.”

 

“How the hell do you know how long we’ve been here?”

 

Sakkint sent him a dismissive look. “Did you believe that our clan would remain unaware of your attempts to disrupt our trading routes? We did not overcome the K’vek clan, did not seize control of the city of Kir, through wanton disregard and inattention. T’Sain should be well aware of this. If she is not . . . well, the ignorance of one’s enemies is always welcome.”

 

“Who’s T’Sain?” Jim asked carefully, and Sakkint turned to him in open amusement.

 

“Feigned ignorance does not suit you. Lord Sarek knows quite well who hired you, and why. It has been his son’s duty for the past several months to monitor your whereabouts and your captain’s communications with the K’vek leaders.”

 

Jim set his jaw. “That doesn’t make any sense. If you knew we were there, why let us keep attacking your people?”

 

Sakkint simply shrugged, a surprisingly Human gesture that caught Jim off guard. “Your unit is small, but quite effective. You have also shown great innovation in concealing your whereabouts. It took us close to a year to find a way around your current methods; no one is eager to lose track of you for so long again. Your Captain Pike prefers to spare life when such mercy is practical. As long, then, as you believe yourselves well concealed, we are able to send enough false convoys into your path to keep our true main routes unmolested with minimal overall losses.”

 

Jim simply sat back again, unable to fight his way past the emotions raging inside of him long enough to respond. On the one hand, he was furious. All of their work for who knew how long had been pointless. That he and his friends were pieces in the constant chess game played out across the Vulcan sands came as no surprise. The realization they were nothing but pawns, however, all but worthless in the long run . . . it was infuriating.

 

He tried to hang on to that, to the anger and frustration, but they were swiftly being eclipsed by a growing sense of panic. Because if Sakkint was telling him all of this so casually, Jim’s chances of survival must have been worse than he had foolishly hoped.

 

Jim stood and moved towards the back of the ship. Sakkint made no move to stop him, which confirmed to Jim that there was nothing of importance located in the rear cabin. That was for the best; his flight instincts were screaming at him to run, and he knew that if it had been even remotely possible he would have tried to escape. If he’d managed it Sakkint would simply contact the rest of the K’tash contingent, and the camp would be overrun.

 

“You should rest, if you can,” Sakkint said without turning around. “You will not have much opportunity to do so once it begins.”

 

It was good advice, and Jim stretched out in one of the seats at the back of the craft. His mind refused to quiet, however, and for the next several hours he simply sat and thought about what he had gotten himself into. The good news—such as it was—was that if he failed, at least he wouldn’t have to live with the consequences. Cold comfort when those consequences would likely include the death of nearly everyone in the universe that Jim truly cared about.

 

Well then. He’d just have to make sure not to fail.

 

Easier said than done. He still only had the most basic idea of what would be required of him. His body, of course; that part wasn’t the problem. If that’s all there was to it, Jim would have said yes the second Sava or any of the others had propositioned him.

 

He’d had a few tastes of Vulcan sexuality over the years on various leaves, and the thought of that strength, intensity, and focus, all turned up to eleven? He’d have been on that in a heartbeat. But while Vulcans were usually as capable of purely physical sexuality as any other species, that changed during _pon farr_. A mental connection was required then, and that was what had made Jim balk every time he’d been asked so far. He had no idea how deep that connection would go, and there were parts of his mind where he didn’t want anyone else trespassing. He had no idea how to hold those parts back, had no idea if that was even possible, and had been afraid that he would panic and instinctively fight any outside mental presence.

 

But, he reasoned a little desperately, this was a different situation. This wasn’t his friend or his comrade; all Jim had to do was make it through the next few days, and then he’d never see this Lord Spock again. If the worst parts of him were exposed in the process, what did it matter?

 

Jim was still trying to convince himself of that when he felt the craft slow and descend, settling to the ground at last with every bit of the grace it had displayed in its takeoff; Jim hardly felt a thing. There was a series of beeps and trills from the cockpit, and then Sakkint emerged, a pack slung over one shoulder, and punched in a code that sent the exterior door sliding open. He stepped through immediately, descending the steps without looking back to see if Jim would follow. Unsurprising; Sakkint knew very well that Jim wasn’t exactly swimming in options.

 

They had landed at the edge of a ruined city huddled at the foot of a mountain, Jim saw as he emerged into the bright midday light. A hot wind was blowing, sending Sakkint’s hair whipping around his head, and Jim paused with a frown, cocking his head to listen. He could have sworn he’d heard something, like a voice crying out.

 

“Do not trust what you hear; your ears will deceive you. This was the last city to suffer military attack in Vulcan history, a dishonorable attack by a man whose madness for power was seen too late. Legend claims that this place is haunted by the ghosts of the fallen.”

 

“What do you say?” Jim asked, calling out over the wind, and Sakkint shrugged again.

 

“Perhaps the legends are true. Perhaps the voices of the dead are nothing more than wind through ruined buildings. Either way, it is a dangerously foolish place to wander.” Sakkint turned so that he was facing into the wind, his hair blowing out long and wild behind him, and pointed. “The main road travels straight through; do not turn from it. The path to The Hidden One lies in the foothills just beyond the farthest city limit.”

 

Jim looked up and was just able to make out what looked like it might be the corner of a building set into the mountainside, blending with the surrounding stone so thoroughly that it may have easily been nothing but an optical illusion. The Hidden One must be the fortress then, he presumed, if not Lord Spock himself.

 

“So I’m supposed to walk.” He turned to cast an irritated look Sakkint’s way. “I thought I was supposed to be conserving my strength.”

 

“I have brought you as close as I dare. There is no way to tell how much of his reason Lord Spock yet retains, but it is likely to be very little. Were an aircraft to approach, the likelihood of it reaching the fortress before being shot down is so slim as to be unworthy of calculating. An approach on foot will likely go unnoticed.”

 

“Great.” Jim squinted against the sunlight and took stock of the path he would have to take. It would take at least two, possibly three hours at a good pace to reach his destination, he estimated, and during the hottest portion of the day at that. He set his jaw. Yet again, he didn’t really seem to have any better options. “Guess I’d better get going, then.”

 

“Indeed.” Sakkint pulled the pack from his shoulder and held it out to Jim. “Water,” he explained; “two canteens full.”

 

“Thanks.” Jim reached out to take it, but Sakkint did not immediately release his grip.

 

“Your bravery is admirable,” the Vulcan said instead. “If you do not survive, I shall ensure a proper funeral. Your _katra_ shall receive a place of honor.”

 

“Uh. Thanks.” Jim wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. The idea that his remains would get the full measure of Vulcan herbs and chanting was cold comfort, to say the least, and with his admittedly limited grasp of Vulcan mysticism the _katra_ comment was more or less meaningless to him. The expression on Sakkint’s face was sincere, however, and Jim found himself oddly moved despite his lack of understanding. “Thank you,” he said again. “If I don’t . . . well, tell Pike . . .”

 

He trailed off, at a loss. Now was a time for his last words, for a final statement to the man who had been like a father to him for the past decade. Jim wanted to say something meaningful, something profound, something that would make Pike—make _all_ his friends—proud to remember him. But all that filled his head was a pathetic, plaintive protest that he didn’t want to die. While it had the benefit of being entirely true, he figured it was probably something that could pretty much be taken as read.

 

“Tell him I tried,” he said at last, slinging the pack onto his back when Sakkint finally released it. “Tell him I don’t regret it. And, ah, if you can, try to make it sound like I wasn’t scared shitless, okay?” He took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

 

Jim turned without waiting for a response and set off across the city, trying to ignore the howling winds and his own certainty that he was walking to his death.

 

Time started to blur after the first half-hour. It already felt as though he had been walking forever. The jacket he’d tented over his head and upper body kept him from burning while doing absolutely nothing for the heat. The wind blew more or less constantly, but brought little relief; instead it coated him in a fine layer of red dust and howled through half-toppled buildings.

 

From within the city itself Jim could see that the ruins didn’t display any recognizable blast patterns or intentional destruction. It seemed instead that the buildings had simply fallen into neglected disrepair, brought down by sand and wind and the passage of time, as though the city’s entire population had all packed up and left at once. Or, he amended, remembering Sakkint’s words, as though some cataclysm had wiped every living thing out of existence.

 

Another howling cry went up, and Jim hastened his steps.

 

Several times he had to stop, collapsed in the shade of a ruined building while he gulped down water and, once, injected himself with one of the tri-ox hypos that McCoy had sent along with him. The first canteen had gone dry by the time he reached the foothills; Jim hoped the scramble up the rocky path wasn’t actually as long as it seemed. He had no idea how long he had been walking already, but from that point on there was no shade to provide a few moments of relief.

 

Even close up, the fortress was so well camouflaged that Jim almost didn’t see it before he ran into the front doors. It wasn’t built _on_ the mountain, he could see now, so much as built _into_ it, a solid structure that looked as though it had been carved from the very living rock. Maybe it had been, Jim thought. It was not at all what he had expected, nothing like the Vulcan strongholds he had glimpsed in the past two years. This was sly instead of brash, concealed where the others had been on proud display. Was that due to the place’s master, he wondered? Or was Jim correct in thinking that he could detect a Human hand at work? The influence, perhaps, of Warlord Sarek’s Human wife?

 

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of groaning hinges, and he sprang back, startled, as one of the wide double doors eased open. Heart racing, Jim took a hesitant step forward. A rush of cooler air struck him as he did so, and he nearly crumpled in relief. The smell hit him next, and he nearly whimpered. If the smell of roasting _le-matya_ had been tempting, whatever lay beyond those doors was downright irresistible. The last time Jim had smelled anything approaching it had been on his last leave to ShirKahr, outside of restaurants that catered to a clientele significantly more financially solvent than mid-level mercenaries. Even that couldn’t compare, though. Jim could make out roasting meat and half-familiar spices, the sharp tang of vegetables and the unmistakable scent of fresh bread.

 

Jim was through the doors, inside before he made a conscious decision to move. He had a moment to register that the room he had entered was huge and dark, the true size of it impossible to measure in the meager light spilling through the open door. And then that light was dimming, and the door _wasn’t_ open anymore. It closed behind him with an ominous settling noise that echoed through the massive chamber.

 

Immersed in darkness and unable to think past the sudden rush of fear that swamped him, Jim stumbled back, intending to wrench the door back open and run. Instead his back collided with a hot, broad body, and he leapt forward again, spinning to face his opponent before he realized that doing so would completely disorient him. This was it, he thought, his body automatically tensing to fight now that flight was no longer possible.

 

“My apologies,” a soft voice sounded out of the darkness to his left, and Jim spun to face it as best he could. “It was not my intention to startle you; I had quite forgotten about the light.”

 

“Spock?” Jim swallowed harshly, trying to bring himself back under control. “Lord Spock?”

 

“Hardly,” came the dry response. “You are both rather more clothed and rather more . . . well, _alive_ than you would be had my master met you at the door. Again, I do apologize for the darkness. My master disdains lights as a general rule, and the rest of us have little use for it.”

 

“What do you—” A small light flickered to life before Jim could finish speaking, and as the owner of the voice stepped forward the lantern he held revealed a large, well-dressed Vulcan whose eyes stared white and blind out of wrinkle-lined face. “Oh.”

 

“Come. Your meal awaits.”

 

“Ah.” Jim followed as the Vulcan began to walk away, unwilling to be left alone in the darkness again. “Sorry to be rude, but . . . well, do you know what I’m here for?”

 

“Of course. _Kar-lan_ Sakkint sent word of your approach; that is how we were able to prepare a suitable meal in time.” As Jim pulled up alongside him, he could see a look like mild reproach on his host’s face. “We are not uncivilized. You risk much; a feast in welcome is only a small gesture. And you would do well to gather what strength you may before you _are_ sent to meet my master.”

 

Jim had no response for that, especially with the scent of all that glorious food teasing him again and making his stomach grumble in protest. He hadn’t, he realized quite abruptly, eaten anything since the roasted _le-matya_ the night before.

 

“I am called Vlorik,” the Vulcan offered. “It is my duty to ensure that my master’s house runs smoothly.”

 

“I’m Jim.” He cleared his throat. “I guess it’s my duty to . . . ah . . .”

 

“Quite.”

 

Jim opened his mouth to say something more—what, he had no idea—but Vlorik turned abruptly into an open doorway, and they came to the source of the smells that had set Jim’s mouth watering.

 

He took in everything he could while Vlorik called for more lights. They appeared to be in some sort of banquet hall; directly in front of Jim was a heavy wooden table that seemed to stretch on forever, laden down with what looked like enough food to feed Pike’s entire unit. Jim didn’t recognize ninety percent of it, and he had to mentally caution himself to take care: digging into unfamiliar food was rarely a good idea for him since he was, as McCoy often complained, allergic to nearly everything under the stars.

 

More lights kindled to life around the room, and Jim realized that there were half a dozen other Vulcans scattered around the perimeter. Four of them, he saw, had white eyes like Vlorik’s; the other two, though their eyes were the deep brown typical of Vulcans, moved with the deliberate and careful movements of the blind. While the others began to load plates with food, Vlorik pulled out the chair at the head of the table and simply stood until Jim took the hint and sat to be waited on by unseeing servants.

 

The food was delicious, despite the rather unnerving surroundings. There were several dishes that Jim recognized as safe for him to eat, including _mashya_ stewed in _kaasa_ juice—it was one of his guilty pleasures, and his first stop whenever he was in one of the cities was usually to one of the street kiosks that sold it year-round. He had two and a half bowls of it before he even looked at anything else. Next was some sort of bird stuffed with what proved to be cheese and something he remembered Sava identifying as fire fruit. He tried few bites of _pok tar_ , a small plate of the salad that Vlorik continued to push his way, and a solid helping of something Jim couldn’t remember the name of, but tasted like fried bananas.

 

By the time he pushed back from the table, unable to eat another bite, he hardly appeared to have made a dent in the food. Vlorik said nothing, but picked up the lantern that he had carried in and moved to the door, waiting until Jim stood and followed. More relaxed from the food than he would have thought possible, Jim didn’t bother with questions as his guide led him through a series of hallways, down several flights of stairs, taking him deeper and deeper into the heart of the fortress.

 

The air grew steadily warmer as they went and, he realized, wetter as well. There was a sound like lapping water that grew steadily louder as they walked. Jim had been so hungry that his own filthiness had hardly registered, but now the humidity seemed to be turning the dirt and dust that coated his skin to mud. He very nearly cheered when they passed through a final doorway and into what appeared to be some sort of underground hot-spring spa. Word about the light seemed to have spread: there were several lamps casting light around the room, turning everything to shades of pale gold and dusky shadows.

 

The walls were bare, raw rock, but the floor had been tiled around five scattered pools that bubbled and churned. Thick towels were stacked next to each pool, along with bottles and jars of what Jim presumed were soaps and oils like the ones used in the ShirKahr bathhouses. There were also, he realized with a start, four female attendants waiting patiently against the wall beside the nearest pool. That was something they _didn’t_ have in the bathhouses; at least, not in the ones where bathing was actually the point.

 

“The pools at the back are likely too hot for Human skin,” Vlorik told him, “but the most immediate two should be bearable. Your attendants will bathe you and fetch anything you may require.”

 

“Woah, woah, wait,” Jim said desperately as Vlorik turned to leave. “I, um. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the whole full-service treatment you guys have going on here, but I can bathe myself.”

 

The old Vulcan raised an eyebrow and said simply, “It is tradition.” He turned again. “Be sure to test the water before you enter one of the pools,” he called over his shoulder. Then he extinguished the light he held, and was gone.

 

Jim glanced nervously at the waiting women. “Really,” he tried again. “I’m good.”

 

“It is an integral part of the mating ritual,” the one on the left said placidly. Unlike the others, she wore a thin strip of cloth over her eyes; something about the way the cloth was stretched made Jim think that the sockets it covered were likely empty. “We will ensure that no trace of a potential rival remains upon your skin.”

 

“Well, if you put it like that,” Jim muttered and took a deep breath, wondering yet again at what he had gotten himself into. But anything that would help him stay alive was worth it; he exhaled with a shrug and stripped off his clothes.

 

The second pool back was hot enough to burn in a pleasant enough way, and Jim indulged in a brief dip, letting himself sink down until the water closed over his head. By the time he emerged, shaking water from his eyes, the women had joined him. Two knelt behind him while the other two slipped their robes from their shoulders and stepped into the pool with him; Jim nearly groaned. The heat of the water, however, was enough of a distraction to prevent any embarrassing reactions on his part, so long as he kept his eyes closed.

 

Four women in varying states of undress or no, Jim quickly classified it as the least erotic bathing experience of his life. They set at him with brushes and rough cloths, scrubbing him down from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Brisk, efficient fingers worked shampoo through his hair before firm hands pushed him beneath the surface again to rinse away the suds. Once he was clean he was left to soak until his limbs were loose and pliant, and his fingers and toes had turned to shriveled prunes.

 

The women pulled him from the pool and guided him to a small alcove with a toilet and equipment that Jim tried very hard not to think too much about, even as he used it. Once he was clean inside as well as out, he stepped back into the humid air of the baths and the women’s waiting hands.

 

“You walked through the city to get here,” the shortest of the four said, her hands trailing carefully over Jim’s shoulders. “Your skin has dried. T’Mira, the oil.”

 

T’Mira, whose arms bore long, thin scars scattered from her wrists to her shoulders, fetched a long, thin bottle from the nearest pool’s ledge. The women passed it amongst themselves, pouring the faintly spiced oil into their hands before rubbing it into every inch of Jim’s skin. They weren’t shy, he thought wryly; he had to give them that. Still, when he was handed a different bottle and told to apply the last of the oil himself, Jim couldn’t help the flush that spread over his own skin. He retreated back into the alcove; blind or not, he didn’t want to do this with an audience.

 

He took his time, stretching himself as he applied a liberal dose of the thick, slippery oil. Eyes closed, one hand braced against the wall, he worked at himself until he was able to slide three fingers in and out without any discomfort. It would have to do, he thought, both relieved and worried that he was half-hard by the time he finished. If he was still capable of arousal after the past couple of hours, he had to think that there was hope for what was coming.

 

When he emerged again the women led him out of the room, and Jim pulled up short.

 

“Hang on,” he said. “Am I gonna get a robe or something?”

 

T’Mira tilted her head inquisitively. “For what purpose?”

 

Jim didn’t bother trying again. He was here for one very obvious purpose, after all; they probably didn’t feel the need for clothing that would immediately be torn away. Instead he let them lead him to another alcove; this one proved to be some sort of modified turbolift, bringing them up to a hallway with large windows at either end, letting in the daylight. They guided him down the corridor to a heavy wooden door that opened on the most luxurious bedroom Jim had ever seen.

 

“No one here,” Jim said cautiously, stepping inside.

 

“There is still some time until dusk,” the blindfolded woman said. “Lord Spock never stirs from his quarters before then.”

 

Another large window was set into the far wall, offering a view of the city below and the desert beyond, but Jim found his attention riveted on the almost obscenely large bed that dominated the room. Pillows were heaped over the surface bright reds and golds contrasting with the rich purple bedspread. He stepped forward for a closer look and, perhaps predictably, heard the door close behind him a moment later. Out of habit more than hope, he tried the doorknob. Locked.

 

With nothing to do now but wait, Jim found himself suddenly exhausted. Two steps brought him to the bed, and he climbed up to collapse amidst the mountain of pillows. Adrenaline and fear could only carry him so far, and for now he seemed to have finally hit empty. The bed beneath him was silky and soft, and within seconds he had fallen asleep, waiting for the night to fall.

 

 

 


	4. The Prophecy of Apollo, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next part up and Christmas still to come! \o/  ~~Whether or not that other thing will get finished by that deadline is another matter.~~   Here, my lovelies, have A WHOLE HEAP OF SPOCK!  Don't say I never did nothin' for ya. ^_~  (P.S. I will be responding to comments on the last part soon, as well as including the OMG FANART YOU GUYS I'M FLIPPING OUT SO HARD I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU!  Love you much, bbs.)

**Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)   
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot (AU)  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** My cats own all, I own nothing.  They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse.  Cats, you make terrible agents!  Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.  
 **Summary:** AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?  
 **Author's Note:** As promised, the next part up and Christmas still to come! \o/  ~~Whether or not that other thing will get finished by that deadline is another matter.~~   Here, my lovelies, have A WHOLE HEAP OF SPOCK!  Don't say I never did nothin' for ya. ^_~  (P.S. I will be responding to comments on the last part soon, as well as including the OMG FANART YOU GUYS I'M FLIPPING OUT SO HARD I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU!  Love you much, bbs.)

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/67370.html) | [Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68507.html) | [Part 3](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68726.html)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim woke with a start, struggling to find his bearings as sleep faded slowly from his mind. His first thought was that he hadn’t slept long: a few minutes, maybe an hour, but a short enough time that the sun had yet to set. Almost immediately, however, he realized that the light wasn’t coming from the window. A single lamp with a thick metal shade hung above his head, turning the bed into a pool of golden light and casting the rest of the room into shadow. The window must, at some point, have been shuttered; not so much as a hint of Vulcan’s bright starlight shone into the room, and the air felt hot and heavy and close. It pressed in on him from all sides as if to emphasize the unrelenting darkness that surrounded his single oasis of light.

 

And within that darkness, he heard something stir.

 

The certainty that he was no longer alone in the room hit him with terrifying force, and the thing in the shadows stirred again as though it could hear the sound of Jim’s heart as it began to race. There was a low, rough sound, like a growl and yet not. It didn’t sound angry, Jim thought. He hoped. It sounded . . . inquisitive, maybe. Hungry. Jim tried to take it as a good sign that he was still alive, and sat up completely.

 

“Hello,” he tried tentatively, and was answered by the same low, hungry sound. He could make out the sound of breathing as well now, unsteady and drawn past gritted teeth. The thought of those teeth sent a frisson of fear through him, something that he tried to ignore. “Ah. Lord Spock?”

 

The voice that answered him was low and rough, the words spoken slowly and deliberately, and the air seemed suddenly to vibrate with the tension of control that was nearly at its breaking point.

 

“There is a switch on the wall,” the voice said. “Turn out the light.”

 

Jim glanced over his shoulder. The metal plate that surrounded the light switch gleamed faintly at the edge of the pool of light. Easy enough to lean over, to stretch out an arm and flip the switch. To extinguish the light and leave nothing but inky blackness and the thing that waited in the shadows.

 

“I . . .” Jim swallowed harshly, trying to remind himself to submit. “I’d rather not,” he said instead, and wished too late to be able to snatch the words back.

 

The snarl that split the air was furious, and so close that Jim imagined he could feel the breath that expelled it slam against his skin. He had a split second to think of how high up the sound had seemed to originate, to think _Fucking hell, how tall_ is _he?_ Then something slammed against the lamp—a chair, his panicked brain thought, a heavy wooden chair that would’ve taken all of Jim’s strength even to lift—and ripped it free as though the suspending cord had been made of paper. There was a heart rattling crash as wood and glass shattered and metal crumpled, and a shower of sparks in the sudden darkness. From where he had fallen back against the bed Jim could make out a towering figure: pale skin over corded muscle, long dark hair that seemed to whip around his head, the briefest flash of dark, enraged eyes.

 

Then the light faded, bright spots dancing before his eyes in the dark, and a hot, hard body fell upon him.

 

Jim’s instincts took over, fueled by the fear that blazed to life again as he was grappled in the dark. He twisted and jerked, trying to break the Vulcan’s hold on him, and for a moment, with his skin still slick with oil and sweat, he nearly succeeded. Only for a moment, however. Soon enough greater strength and better leverage prevailed, and he found himself face-down, helplessly pinned between soft bedding and hard flesh. He could feel long strands of hair brushing over his shoulders, hot breath rushing over his ear, the unexpected scrape of stubble against his neck as Spock inhaled deeply, as if to test his scent. That first hungry growl again, and then an instant later teeth sank hard into the back of his neck as strong hands slid down his body and spread him open and then . . . then . . .

 

It was like getting fucked by flame made solid, Jim thought dazedly as Spock thrust into him. Heat beyond anything he could have imagined, surrounding him, inside of him, burning him alive. There was pain, and oddly it seemed to center him, driving back the panic and letting him focus again.

 

With his eyes closed the darkness was no longer quite as frightening; he focused on the physical: the burning heat and tight stretch of Spock thrusting hard and fast, the sharp sting of teeth holding him in place, marking him. His own cock, quiescent until then, gave a sudden twitch at the thought, and Jim did his best to focus on the idea of his body being taken, claimed, marked. It was unexpectedly arousing, and he shifted as best he could while trapped under the insistent press of the body above his, trying to spread his legs wider. He felt that body shudder violently, hips slamming forward with brutal force, and Spock’s cry was muffled against Jim’s skin as he spilled his release inside of him.

 

Climax hardly seemed to slow him down. Seconds later the weight lifted from Jim’s back and his head spun as he was flipped effortlessly over, his legs shoved up and apart before that impossible heat filled him again. The back of his neck throbbed dully, but either the rest of the pain had lessened or Jim had simply stopped caring. He was growing steadily harder with each push of Spock’s hips, his own desire rising now that his life seemed to be in less immediate danger. As soon as he shifted, however, seeking more, a low, warning growl erupted out of Spock’s chest and a hand clamped tight around Jim’s throat. He took the hint and went still, trying to project open, calming thoughts.

 

There was a hitch in the movements of Spock’s hips, the sound of a quickly drawn breath. Another full-body shudder, then, and a low, desperate sound that made Jim’s own muscles clench in sympathetic need. What he did next was stupid and dangerous, something that was only underscored by the hand still locked around his throat, but he couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried. That sound was tugging at something deep inside of him, and all he could manage in answer was to reach up blindly, his hand tangling in silky hair before it found the back of Spock’s neck and tugged him down to send their mouths literally crashing together.

 

He could feel the Vulcan’s surprise in every tense line of his body, would almost swear he could taste it in the lips that parted in confusion over his. Jim managed to tilt his head and pull back just enough so that their mouths no longer ground against each other. He didn’t imagine Spock had much experience with the Human way of kissing—most Vulcans of Jim’s acquaintance viewed the practice with anything from bafflement to distaste. But Jim knew from watching T’Pring and Stonn that there could be no mistaking his next move, as he lifted his free hand to slide his first two fingers against the ones that pressed against the pulse that hammered below his jaw.

 

Spock made that sound again, breathing it into the kiss as a hot tongue slid hesitantly into Jim’s mouth. Jim moaned, rocking his hips, and reluctantly pulled his mouth away.

 

“Yes,” he rasped. His airflow was still restricted by Spock’s grip, and he had no idea what he was agreeing to. But he knew that the tangle of their bodies wasn’t enough, and that this desperation demanded no other answer. So, “Yes,” he said again, right before his world disintegrated.

 

Spock’s hand released his throat, and Jim had time for a single starved breath. Then that hand was pressed against the side of his face, fingertips spidering over his brow, his temple, his cheekbone, the heat of them so great it felt as though they had fused to his skin. Almost as soon as the sensation registered, however, it was gone, his physical awareness lost in what felt like a sort of mental detonation.

 

He had never known true heat before that moment, he realized, never known what it was to burn. It was happening to Spock now; Jim could feel it. Flames consumed him, burning in his blood, in his mind, in the very air he breathed. Jim, the sweet cool body beneath him, was balm and torment at once, like water abruptly transmuted to oil, and what began as relief only made Spock burn hotter. Deeper than need, deeper than craving, _aitlu nash-veh k'dular_. But fear held him back from what he wanted, fear of destroying this beautiful, fragile golden creature, of shattering his salvation before he himself was consumed by the fires that tormented him.

 

Jim’s mind surged forward, asserting itself through the maelstrom of howling need that surrounded and filled him. Not fragile, not delicate. And not afraid; not when another depended on him. So he opened himself, inviting Spock further in. Spock didn’t hesitate but immediately sank deep into Jim’s mind, his thoughts like quicksilver in a sea of gold. And there, in the core of who and what and _why_ Jim was, something woke and reached for that new presence.

 

Something in the Vulcan’s mind answered readily, eagerly; the touch of his mind there was warm sunlight and soothing, welcoming _home_. Jim felt Spock draw their minds together, a connection that radiated out from that point, and it became an anchor, a bridge, something that was neither and both of them at the same time. The fire in Spock’s mind burned in Jim’s now, as well, though not as brightly nor as hot. Shared between them the burden was bearable, and the rush of euphoric relief that streamed from Spock’s mind into his was too much to bear. Jim felt himself coming apart, flying to pieces, and knew that Spock would see him put back together again.

 

In the darkness Jim seemed to exist in an almost timeless state after that. He couldn’t have said how long he stayed in that room, if it was hours or days or weeks. It didn’t seem to matter; Spock was there, and Spock would see him through intact.

 

His awareness came in fits and starts, pieces of reality that managed to filter through.

 

He was staring into the darkness as Spock’s mouth trailed down his body, the silky hair trailing over his chest a dizzying contrast to the rough stubble that scraped against his stomach. Hot hands slid down his sides to anchor his hips as Spock pulled images straight from Jim’s thoughts and wrapped his lips around Jim’s cock.

 

He was sitting, propped against a pile of pillows, Spock warm and solid at his side. Every few moments long fingers lifted a piece of food to his mouth, lingering shamelessly over his lips as they retreated. Jim wanted to feed himself, but he couldn’t see where the food was to snatch it away, and the only response he received to his protests was a low chuckle and another bite-sized piece of fruit. Finally he settled for seizing Spock’s wrist before his hand could retreat and holding it there, unable to stop a smug smile from curving his lips at the shocked, helpless groan that sounded in his ear as he sucked two fingers into his mouth.

 

He was sitting in a warm pool of water, his body cradled by Spock’s behind him. A thin cloth skimmed up one arm and across his chest, a scent like sun-warmed spices rising from the lather that slicked his skin. Jim lifted one arm behind him to wrap around Spock’s neck, turning to draw the Vulcan into a Human kiss; they’d made good progress on that front, and Jim felt his breath catch at a particularly clever twist of Spock’s tongue. There was a splash between his legs as the cloth fell from Spock’s fingers a moment before hands grasped Jim’s hips, lifting him until Spock could slide inside. Water lapped as they moved together, Spock’s hand closing around Jim’s cock beneath the water and Jim turning to brace both hands on the smooth stone ledge that ringed the pool as he rode Spock with single-minded intensity.

 

He was boneless with their shared release, his body aching and sore, more completely drained than he had ever been in his life. The air was saturated with the scent of them, and it made something in his mind buzz with lazy satisfaction. Jim moved close to the warm body lying next to him, and strong arms gathered him closer still. Spock’s hand lifted to his face and Jim tilted towards him in invitation, managing a pleased hum when fingertips found his meld points. Warm and sated, he basked in the pleasure of Spock’s mind in his again and felt himself slipping into sleep.

 

The next time Jim woke it was with unfamiliar hands on him and he reacted without thinking, rolling off of the bed and falling into a defensive stance. At least, that was what he tried to do; in reality, he barely shifted before his entire body sent up a screaming protest and he fell back against the sheets, gasping and trying to hold on to consciousness. When he had managed to clear the agonized white haze that had overtaken his vision, he realized that the face hovering over him in patient concern was half familiar. Vlorik lifted an eyebrow, and when Jim made no attempt to move again, resumed his task. A moment later Jim realized that the cool, tingling cream that the Vulcan was spreading over his skin was relaxing muscles that were stiff and knotted, aided every so often by a clever twisting press of long, wrinkled fingers.

 

A moment after that, it finally struck Jim that he was _seeing_ all of this again.

 

The window was standing open again, sending daylight in to illuminate the room, though the lamp above the bed seemed to have been repaired. The window must have been so for some time; the air had lost its heavy musk, and was scented now with something fresh and delicate that was blowing in on the warm air. The bed had been remade with fresh linens at some point. Nevertheless, the scent of Spock seemed to somehow linger in the air. Or, Jim noted wryly, possibly on his own skin.

 

“An attendant will help you to the bath when I have finished,” Vlorik said, moving from Jim’s stomach down to his thighs. “At the moment, attempting to move on your own would not be advisable.”

 

Jim tried to swallow past a dust-dry throat. “Did anyone ever tell you that touch telepathy thing is a little creepy?” he rasped.

 

“No.”

 

“Right.” Jim shifted again, experimentally, and was relieved to find that whatever Vlorik was doing had eased most of the aches in his body. “Look, no one’s ever going to accuse you guys of being bad hosts, but seriously, I _am_ capable of bathing myself. Unless you’re going to tell me that this is more of your Vulcan _pon farr_ tradition?”

 

“Of course not,” Vlorik replied easily. He dipped his fingers into a small pot and rubbed another dollop of salve between his hands. “If you would be so kind as to lift your arms?”

 

Jim tried, and the pain that exploded through his shoulders nearly made him pass out.

 

“Perhaps,” Vlorik said after a moment, “you should accept that my knowledge of what your body may endure at the moment is greater than your own.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Jim gasped, and the Vulcan’s lips twitched.

 

“My master would be quite displeased if the inattention of his servants allowed you to drown while bathing.”

 

“All right, I get it, more full-service spa treatment.” Jim took a deep, steadying breath, and released it on a helpless groan as Vlorik massaged more salve into his shoulders. “I feel like I’ve been hit with the broad side of a spaceship,” he complained.”

 

“I would imagine so. Human bodies are not designed to withstand the Vulcan time of mating. You are fortunate to have survived; to the best of my knowledge, you are only the second Human to have done so. Granted,” he mused, “to the best of my knowledge you are also only the second to have attempted it.”

 

“Well. I guess Spock will have another seven years to—” He cut off suddenly, coughing, and Vlorik withdrew to fetch a glass of water.

 

“Can you drink?” he asked. “Or would you prefer us to replace the saline drip?”

 

“The . . . what?” Jim looked down and, sure enough, there was a small bandage on the back of his hand and the lingering feel of the needle, a feeling he remembered from—

 

“How long was I out?” he managed, pushing those memories back down.

 

“You have slept for the past twenty-one hours,” Vlorik informed him, and Jim’s eyes went wide.

 

“Shit.” He took an unsteady breath. “Let me have the water.”

 

Vlorik helped to lift him into a sitting position, sending a fresh wave of pain through Jim’s abdominal muscles. It was worth it, however, when the edge of the glass touched his lips and cool, sweet water flowed into his mouth. He drank clumsily, and nearly half of the water ended up spilling down his chest, but that was good, too. When he was finished he let himself be eased back down, and took some small amount of comfort in the fact that at least things couldn’t get any more embarrassing for him.

 

“If you are suitably refreshed, please turn over so that I can check for tearing and damage.”

 

Son of a _bitch_.

 

Jim bore it all with as much grace as he could manage. Once Vlorik’s examination was complete Jim let himself be led to the adjoining bath by a blonde Vulcan woman, one of the servants who had aided him upon his arrival. The tub there was smaller than the ones he had seen before, fitted with pipes rather than the natural springs that he suspected formed the others. As he settled into the warm water he gripped the sides of the tub, and the sudden memory of holding onto that smooth stone as Spock thrust into him was nearly overwhelming. His breath caught, and he did his best to ignore the memory as he had the others.

 

The woman seemed content, for the most part, to simply help him into the water and then sit by to ensure he didn’t drown. Jim was grateful for that; something about her touch made him uncomfortable, just as Vlorik’s had. He washed himself as best he could, but his range of motion was still limited. She had knelt beside the tub before he could ask, taking the cloth from his hand and pressing him forward so that she could wash his back with swift, methodical strokes.

 

“Thanks,” he managed. There was awkward silence for a moment, punctuated only by the soft lap of the water and the sound of the cloth sliding over his skin. “So. What’s your name?”

 

“T’Perea,” she said. Her voice was quiet but firm, polite without inviting further discourse. Jim couldn’t help smiling; he’d never been able to resist a beautiful woman playing hard to get.

 

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Jim.”

 

“I know.” She leaned back, wrung out the cloth, and draped it over the edge of the tub. “Shall I shampoo your hair, or would you prefer to do so yourself?”

 

Jim gave his shoulders a testing flex and winced. “Knock yourself out.” T’Perea tilted her head inquisitively, and Jim smiled again. “Sorry. Yes, I’d appreciate your assistance.”

 

“As you command.” She reached out with unerring aim and picked up the bottle with a flared neck that rested nearby.

 

“I’ve never seen a blonde Vulcan before,” Jim commented idly, his eyes closed as she began to work his hair into a lather. Her fingers stilled for a just moment against his scalp, and Jim frowned. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”

 

“I am originally from K’lan-ne, on the island continent of Xir’tan. Fairer coloring is somewhat more common there.”

 

“Oh.” Jim waited, but as no more information seemed to be forthcoming he cast about for a reasonably innocuous subject. “So, what happened to your eyes?”

 

_Smooth, Kirk. Really smooth_.

 

“I was born blind,” she said, and to Jim’s relief seemed far less uncomfortable talking about her eyes than she had been about her hair. “Most of us were, though some, like T’Sal, lived the first part of their lives with sight. All of us are fortunate to have found a place here.”

 

Jim leaned his head back as T’Perea pulled the showerhead from the wall, where it was attached with a long hose, and began to rinse his hair with a spray of warm water. “Everyone who works here is blind.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but T’Perea inclined her head.

 

“We all heard the rumors, that the son of _T’naehm-Feihan_ Sarek accepted the service of those who can not see, provided they can make their way unaided to his stronghold. Not many attempt it. The desert and the mountains both are filled with danger, and the city . . .” She couldn’t quite stifle a shiver. “None approach the city if any other choice remains to them.”

 

Jim tried to imagine it, the long trek through the empty city with no sight to guide you, to distract you from the eerie, wailing winds. “I guess they wouldn’t,” he said eventually.

 

“It says much in your favor that you braved the test,” T’Perea said, and there was something in her voice that was oddly close to pride. “Lord Spock has found a worthy match.”

 

“Yeah.” Jim shifted uncertainly. “Where is he, anyway?”

 

“My lord remains in his study during the daylight hours. He has been monitoring your health quite closely, however; he was quite concerned that he had used you too roughly.”

 

Jim felt himself blush, and was grateful for the towel that he was handed to dry his face. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick cloth, though when he lowered it he could see from the doubtful expression on T’Perea’s face that she had heard him. “Really, I’m feeling much better. Any idea when I’ll be getting a clean bill of health? Don’t get me wrong, the massages and the being bathed by beautiful women are great, but I _do_ have responsibilities.”

 

Their fingers brushed as he handed back the towel, and both of T’Perea’s eyebrows shot up. “You are . . . eager,” she said, clearly surprised.

 

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”

 

She flushed faintly green, and all traces of surprise fell from her face immediately. “Of course not. It is perfectly logical that you should be.” She stood in a single graceful movement. “You are clean,” she declared, and held out her hand. Jim grasped it, using her strength to help himself up, and as soon as he left the water she began to dry him with brisk, impersonal efficiency. “It is Vlorik’s place to determine when you have sufficiently recovered. Your state would be improved, however, if you were to eat. Shall I have a tray sent up?”

 

“Yes, please,” Jim said, focusing on his empty stomach instead of the memory of Spock’s fingers pressing bits of food to his lips.

 

He needed to get out of here soon, he thought as he settled back into bed, no matter how much a part of him seemed to be protesting the idea. That part of him was close to panic at the very idea, unwilling to do something that meant he would never feel Spock’s touch again. He belonged here, it whispered, belonged with the one whose scent lingered on his skin even now. It insisted that he couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon what he had found here.

 

Jim pushed that annoying little voice to the back of his mind. Yes, the sex had been amazing, and he might regret never having Spock’s body at his disposal like that again. But he didn’t _belong_ here. He had to get back to Pike, to his teammates, to the life he had built with them. Had to let them know, he reminded himself, that they’d been risking their lives on a complete fucking waste of time.

 

Another servant, male this time, arrived a few moments later carrying a tray loaded with food. All things, Jim noticed, that he had eaten the night he arrived. Either they had paid better attention than he had realized, or they’d scanned his ident chip and figured out his allergies. Whatever the cause, however, he found that he didn’t really care. The scent of food seemed to kick his hunger into overdrive, and he tore into the meal with zeal. The more he ate, the more the remaining knot of tension between his shoulder blades eased; by the time he finished he was full, relaxed, and completely exhausted. With nothing better to do anyway, Jim settled down into the soft nest of pillows and let the sated torpor in his limbs lull him into a nap.

 

His sleep was deep and dreamless, and he woke with a warm sense of contentment flowing through his veins like a drug. He smiled drowsily and tilted his head back, exposing his neck in invitation to the soft lips nuzzling at the skin below his jaw.

 

Jim came suddenly and fully awake, his heart hammering in his chest. The room was dark again, and a heavy body was draped over him, effectively pinning him to the bed. Silky hair brushed against his shoulders as those lips continued to explore, and Jim shivered.

 

“Spock?” His voice sounded breathless, _needy_ , and he frowned. Before he could try again, however, Spock’s teeth scraped gently over his pulse and all that came out of his mouth was an eager gasp.

 

“Vlorik assured me that you were sufficiently recovered, provided that I could remain reasonably gentle. He also informed me that you had expressed an eagerness to fulfill your responsibilities.” The tip of a hot, wet tongue traced the curve of Jim’s ear, making him shiver. “I am pleased to hear it.”

 

Jim opened his mouth to respond, but when Spock shifted his erection pressed suddenly against Jim’s thigh, and the words turned into a groan. “Is . . . it’s not over?” he asked, unable to think clearly past the press of Spock’s body and the softly nipping kisses that were being trailed across his jaw. Spock made a sound somewhere between a hum and a purr, one of his hands beginning to roam over Jim’s chest.

 

“I no longer burn,” he said, and sucked Jim’s earlobe into his mouth. “You may struggle if you wish.”

 

A jolt went through Jim at those words, and if he hadn’t already been hard when he woke up that would’ve gotten him there. There was something off, something alarming about this situation, but it was difficult to focus through the arousal already blazing through his body. He lifted a leg to wrap around Spock’s hips and hauled Spock up for a proper kiss, and decided he’d have plenty of time for thinking after they’d both gotten off.

 

Spock’s hands were gentle and careful as they moved over Jim’s bruised and battered body. Warm instead of hot, teasing rather than demanding. Jim lifted himself eagerly to Spock’s touch, seeking more. He _needed_ ; not the same fiery, all-consuming need of _pon farr_ , but something stronger. Deeper. By the time Spock’s oil-coated fingers slid inside of him Jim was panting, his skin already slicked with sweat. His hips lifted to meet Spock’s hand, and he smiled as Spock groaned helplessly into his mouth.

 

Spock had promised to be gentle; Jim hadn’t. He gave Spock’s shoulders a hard shove, smiling wickedly in the dark when the Vulcan allowed himself to be pushed over onto his back. Jim leaned down to kiss him again, tangling fingers in long, soft hair as he rocked his hips and ground their cocks together. Then he leaned back and lifted himself up, long-fingered hands on his hips holding him stead as he sank back down and impaled himself with maddening slowness on Spock’s cock.

 

Jim’s other senses seemed to come alive with his vision blocked. Spock’s scent rose up around him, familiar and intoxicating, so strong that Jim could almost taste it. The sound of them sliding wetly together as Jim shifted his hips was obscenely erotic. The grip of Spock’s hands anchored him, keeping him balanced, and Jim reached down to run his hands over Spock’s chest. There was thick hair there, unusual for a Vulcan; Jim tangled his fingers in it, delighting in the feel of it scraping against his palms.

 

He angled his hips, searching, and let out an unsteady cry when the head of Spock’s cock bumped against his prostate. He thrust down harder on the next stroke, and the second ridge hit that bundle of nerves as well. With a shuddering moan Jim braced his hands and began to ride Spock in earnest, blindly seeking more of that mind-shattering pleasure. One of Spock’s hands lifted from Jim’s hip, and Jim waited for it to close around his cock. Instead he felt fingers slide into place against his temple, and pleasure streaked into his brain like lightning. He didn’t last long after that, he imagined; it was difficult to tell, lost as he was to whatever the hell Spock was doing to him. Jim felt his body twitch, then fall, caught by strong hands and lowered gently to lie tucked snugly against Spock’s side.

 

“Fucking hell,” he said eventually, unable to come up with anything more articulate than that but dimly pleased that he’d at least managed something polysyllabic. Spock made some sort of pleased, almost smug noise, and buried his face in Jim’s hair. “That was . . .”

 

“Indeed.” Definitely smug. “Your mind is unusually suited to telepathic contact, for a Human.” His voice turned playful. “Almost greedy, James.”

 

Jim started. “How did you—oh.” He settled back against Spock’s warmth again, rolling his eyes at his own foolishness. “Right, my name is on my chip.”

 

“Chip?”

 

“Yeah, the ident chip I’m tagged with.” Jim snagged one of Spock’s hands and pressed his fingers to the underside of Jim’s forearm. “Name, rank, serial number, medical file, all that. We’re all tagged with them; Pike insisted. I go by Jim, though, not James.”

 

“Ah.” Spock’s fingers caressed the spot, sending unexpected shivers down Jim’s spine. “I see. However, I learned your name from the necklace that you wore on your arrival.” His lips drifted down to Jim’s forehead in gentle exploration. “Kirk, James T.” Jim felt him smile. “My mate came quite well identified. It is fortunate, as your chip will no longer be functioning.”

 

“What?”

 

“The neutron bombs that destroyed Da’kum’Ulcha are still partially active; every hour they emit an EMP pulse. Any electronic information that you carried with you was wiped when you walked through the city.”

 

“Wiped . . . son of a bitch,” Jim cursed. “But . . . no, that can’t be right. I can still understand you, so my UT implant is still working.”

 

Spock’s mouth drifted lower, and they both shivered as his lips brushed against Jim’s psi points. “I do not understand your logic,” he admitted.

 

“I don’t speak Vulcan.” Jim’s hands had lifted to Spock’s shoulders by this point, trailing over smooth skin and firm muscles. “I couldn’t understand you if my UT implant had stopped working.”

 

Spock hummed against Jim’s cheek. “I am speaking Standard.”

 

“You’re what?”

 

“Few Humans are fluent in Vulcan; when you arrived, my servants assumed that this would be the case with you. Have you truly not noticed that we have all spoken in your own tongue?”

 

“I, um. I have trouble telling the difference.” Jim ran one hand through Spock’s hair and slid the other down his back. “Damn it,” he said distractedly, “I’ll have to get new ones put in. That’s going to suck.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t respond well to anesthetics; they give me awful hangovers the next day. I hate surgical implants, but—”

 

“You misunderstand.” Spock pulled away, and Jim just barely bit back a protesting whimper. “Why must you obtain replacements?”

 

“I told you, Pike’s orders. Everyone in his unit has to have them. When I go back—”

 

“You will not.”

 

“I won’t . . . what exactly?”

 

“You will not go back. You will remain here.” Spock reached for him again. “Therefore you need not worry yourself unduly over—”

 

“Okay, hold on.” This time Jim was the one to pull back. “I can’t stay here,” he said reasonably, ignoring the part of him that was insisting that it _wanted_ to stay. “Your _pon farr_ is over, and I have a life to get back to.”

 

“Your life is here now,” Spock replied, his voice every bit as reasonable. “You are my mate; you will remain with me.”

 

“I _was_ your mate, but . . .” Jim blinked into the darkness as understanding hit in a sudden rush. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. “Mate. You mean . . .”

 

“You are my bondmate.” Spock was beginning to sound impatient now. “The bond between us enabled you to survive my Time. You are mine, and I will not have you leave.”

 

“Okay.” Jim struggled to keep his breathing even. “Okay, there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here.”

 

“There has been no misunderstanding. You initiated the _ozh’esta_ ,” he insisted, and Jim felt two fingers slide against his, making him shiver. “You offered your body and your mind to me, and took mine in return. We are bonded, and _you will not leave_.”

 

“I . . .” Jim struggled to keep his breathing even. “I can’t have this conversation in the dark. I’m just going to turn on the—”

 

He found himself pinned flat on his back before he could even begin to move. There was a moment where Spock simply hovered over him, his breathing loud and barely controlled, his hair falling in a curtain around Jim’s face.

 

“When you spoke of your _responsibilities_ ,” Spock said at last, his voice low and dangerous, “You referred to your position in your mentor’s unit.”

 

Jim’s heart was racing and his mouth was dry, but he managed to nod. “Yes.”

 

“You never intended to stay.”

 

“Spock, I—”

 

“You had planned from the start to escape as soon as the monster was sated.”

 

“That’s not—”

 

“You are _mine_ ,” Spock snarled. “I will not release you.”

 

Anger and frustration began to rise in Jim. “I’m not your prisoner.”

 

“No. You are my _mate_.” There was a pause, and when Spock spoke he sounded almost resigned. “I had thought . . . you truly have no wish to stay?”

 

“I . . .”

 

Jim knew that he couldn’t afford to waver, that he had to get back to the people who were waiting for him. But despite his better judgement, there was a part of him that _did_ want to stay. The part of him, he figured, that recognized Spock as his bondmate. The thought of leaving was enough to make him feel ill; but he had to, had responsibilities and obligations to fulfil, and he opened his mouth to tell Spock that.

 

“Will you let me see you?” he asked instead. Spock’s hands tightened around his wrists where they were pinned to the bed.

 

“You will certainly leave if I do.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I will not take the chance. When I am certain you will stay of your own free will, I will show myself to you. Do not attempt to look at me before then.”

 

“What if I just leave?” Jim challenged, and shivered when Spock’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear.

 

“Then I will bring you back,” he breathed. “You belong to me now, Jim; you would do well not to forget that.”

 

Spock released him then, and by the time Jim caught his breath again he was half-hard and entirely alone. He closed his eyes and slid into sleep, too exhausted to worry.

 

Besides, there would apparently be plenty of time for that in the morning.  
  
  
  
  
[>>Part 5](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/75580.html)

 


	5. The Prophecy of Apollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's taken a while, but I DID NOT FORGET ABOUT THIS STORY, SEE?  Massive thanks again to everyone who left me lovely, sexy, amazing fanart. ^_^  EPIC LOVE, BBs.  NO LIE. <3 <3 <3  Lots of heavy-handed symbolism and lampshade-hanging thereof in this part. XD  But we also get to see another (sort of) familiar face!  Excitement!  (It is possible that I should not drink before posting?  Oh well.)

**Title:** The Prophecy of Apollo  
 **Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)   
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot (AU)  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** My cats own all, I own nothing.  They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse.  Cats, you make terrible agents!  Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.  
 **Summary:** AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?  
 **Author's Note:** So, it's taken a while, but I DID NOT FORGET ABOUT THIS STORY, SEE?  Massive thanks again to everyone who left me lovely, sexy, amazing fanart. ^_^  EPIC LOVE, BBs.  NO LIE.  <3 <3 <3  Lots of heavy-handed symbolism and lampshade-hanging thereof in this part. XD  But we also get to see another (sort of) familiar face!  Excitement!  (It is possible that I should not drink before posting?  Oh well.)

 

 

 

  


 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/67370.html) | [Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68507.html) | [Part 3](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68726.html) | [Part 4](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/69503.html)

 

 

 

 

 

For the first time since his arrival, Jim woke alone in his room, though a loaded breakfast tray on a table by the window assured him he had not simply been abandoned. He tried a few cautious stretches. There was still a lingering ache throughout his body, but the pain that had nearly crippled him the day before was gone. He sat up and took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh scent once more filtering into the room through the open window. As prisons went, he thought, throwing off the thin covers and climbing slowly out of bed, there were worse he could be stuck in.

 

His stomach was already rumbling loudly by the time he had relieved himself and splashed a few handfuls of cool water over his face. Jim padded over to the window and climbed onto the wide ledge, settling himself cross-legged with the tray of food in front of him. He had been provided with an assortment of fruit and soft, flat breads, along with a large clay mug of tea that had already gone cool. Jim was grateful that it had; though the slant of the light outside told him it was barely mid-morning, the air was already hot against his bare skin.

 

This was the first time he had taken a good look at the view that his room afforded. As he sat drinking his tea, he assessed the situation. From here, the city looked even larger than he remembered, and somehow more terrifying. It looked mostly whole, no more run-down than any city on one of the Federation’s more neglected colonies. But the stretch of buildings was still and silent; the winds that howled through the city were conspicuous in their absence here, when by rights they should have been even stronger. Despite the heat, it made Jim shiver to think about that wind. He’d leave Vulcan mysticism for someone else to puzzle out.

 

Beyond the city lay the desert, and there was nothing supernatural or uncertain about the dangers there. On foot, there was no chance Jim would be able to carry enough water to get him safely back to camp; the heat would be enough to kill him on its own, especially since he’d be even slower without McCoy’s tri-ox cocktail. If he didn’t die of thirst or heat exhaustion, however, there were still wild _sehlats_ to worry about, not to mention the danger of _le-matyas_ this close to the mountains. And there were supposed to be other, stranger creatures out in the sand, as well. Jim had never been entirely sure if the Vulcans in their unit had been joking when they brought them up, but he’d just as soon not find out first-hand.

 

Even all of those worries, though, would be moot points if he didn’t figure out how to get out of the fortress in the first place. He glanced down; the drop to the ground from his window was easily fifty feet at least, much too far to jump. Hell, he thought angrily, tossing the rest of the tea into the air and watching it splash onto the stone patio below, he didn’t even have any _clothes_. He was stuck in this room like a princess in some kind of twisted fairy tale.

 

Like hell he was.

 

Jim jumped down off of the ledge and marched over to the door. Damn it, he would make enough of a racket that someone would _have_ to come let him out. He’d break the door down with his bare hands if he had to. He reached for the doorknob, ready to rattle and pound and shout until someone came to shut him up.

 

The knob turned, and the door opened.

 

“Huh.” Jim stood for a moment, unable to do more than blink as the door swung towards him. “Okay,” he muttered to himself, “wasn’t expecting that.” He stepped back and regarded the open door suspiciously. He took a step forward, and—

 

“How may I be of service?”

 

Jim shouted in surprise and leapt back, heart hammering in his chest. Another of the Vulcan woman who had bathed him on his arrival, the one whose blindfold stretched over empty sockets, had abruptly appeared in the doorway. She tilted her head inquisitively when he shouted, but made no move to approach him.

 

“Ah . . . hey.” Jim rested his hands on his knees and tried to bring his breathing back under control. “You, ah . . . you move _really_ quietly, you know that?”

 

“My apologies if I startled you. May I be of assistance?”

 

“Assistance. Right.” Jim straightened again, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her. “I wanted to take a look around,” he said, braced for a fight. He was at least half a foot taller and trained in hand-to-hand combat; Vulcan strength or no, he figured he had a decent chance at overcoming her if it came to a physical altercation.

 

“Do you require a guide, or would you prefer to go unaccompanied?”

 

“I. Wow.” He tried to gather his thoughts again. “I’ve gotta be honest, that was a lot easier than I was expecting.”

 

“This is your home now; you are free to come and go as you wish. You will need these, however.” She stepped back and bent to pick up a basket that sat next to the open door. Clothes, Jim realized as she handed it over; soft, neatly folded Vulcan-style robes in muted shades of brown and gold. “Human skin is ill-equipped to withstand our desert winds. It would not do for you to remain unclothed.”

 

Jim snorted. “No kidding. I don’t want to seem unappreciative, but where are _my_ clothes?”

 

A shadow of a frown crossed the woman’s face. “These _are_ yours, my lord; they were made for you while you recovered. My lord Spock wishes for me to assure you that there will be more as soon as—”

 

“I mean _my_ clothes,” Jim interrupted. “The ones I was wearing when I came here. My clothes, my pack, my . . . everything. Where are they?”

 

“Your clothing has been laundered and stored with the rest of your possessions. If there is anything that you require, I would be pleased to bring it to you.”

 

“You stored my own clothes and brought me these to wear instead.” Jim’s temper was beginning to boil again, and he dropped the basket on the floor. “Why?”

 

“The clothing you arrived in is meant for battle. It—”

 

“Bring them to me.”

 

“They are not appropriate attire for one’s home.”

 

“You said they’re meant for battle, didn’t you?” Jim narrowed his eyes. “Then they’re appropriate. Either you can bring them to me, or I can run around this place naked until I manage to find them myself. It’s your call.”

 

For a moment it seemed like she was about to argue, but she only nodded and said, “I will return quickly. Your necklace is beneath the robes, if you require that, as well. Vlorik thought that it might have some personal significance for you.”

 

She left as silently as she had arrived, and Jim bent down to dig past the soft, sand-colored cloth. Just as she had said, the chain with its stamped-metal tags was curled at the bottom of the basket. He drew it out, trying with little success to ignore the guilt beginning to form at the back of his mind. He’d given it up entirely by the time she returned, and let his hand brush against hers as he took the clothes she offered.

 

“I’m sorry,” he offered, trying to project his sincerity as best he could without actually having the first idea what he was doing. “I was rude.”

 

“Somewhat, yes,” she agreed bluntly, surprising Jim into laughing even as he began to pull on his pants. “I took no offense, however, and I still urge you to dress for comfort over pride.”

 

“I’m not a doll for him to dress,” Jim said quietly, all urge to laugh disappearing. “The sooner he figures that out, the better.”

 

“As you say.” The woman didn’t bother to hide her skepticism, and Jim simply shook his head.

 

“I’m still being rude.” He slid his undershirt over his head and tugged his tags on their chain free again. “I never asked your name.”

 

“No, you did not.”

 

Jim’s lips twitched. “Right. Well, I’m Jim Kirk, which I figure you probably already know by now. Will you tell me your name, please?”

 

“I am T’Sal,” she said with a nod.

 

“Pleased to meet you.” He bent to lace his boots. “Is T’Perea all right?”

 

There was a pause just long enough to have him glancing up, a hint of foreboding whispering its way into his thoughts. “She is in perfect health, if that is the meaning behind your question.”

 

“Part of it.” Jim straightened again, frowning. “Is she in trouble?”

 

“Not precisely. Lord Spock is somewhat displeased with the faulty information that she advanced on your behalf, however, and Vlorik assumed that you would be similarly grateful for her absence.”

 

“He assumed incorrectly. Is she being punished?” Jim demanded.

 

“Yes, but not in the manner I believe you mean. She is assigned to look after I-Chaya for the rest of the week, but she will come to no physical harm.”

 

“Where can I find her?”

 

T’Sal frowned. “For what purpose?”

 

“To apologize for getting her in trouble! She read the situation wrong, but she wasn’t doing it maliciously; it’s not her fault.”

 

“I would not advise seeking her out,” T’Sal warned.

 

“Why not?”

 

“As your bondmate, Lord Spock is . . . not overly fond of your spending more time in her company.”

 

“Oh for . . .” Jim’s hands fisted at his side, and he paced furiously to the window and back. “Come on,” he said shortly, striding past T’Sal and through the open door.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked, hurrying after him.

 

“You’re going to take me to wherever she and this I-Chaya are so that I can apologize without getting lost in this goddamn maze of a castle, and if my _bondmate_ doesn’t like it, he can come out and explain that to me _to my face_.” He stopped, glancing up and down the hallway. “Which way?”

 

Her mouth set, but T’Sal turned to her right. “They will likely be in the east courtyard. I-Chaya favors it.” She started to walk, and Jim followed.

 

“Who is I-Chaya, exactly?” he asked as they started down a narrow spiral staircase.

 

“He is Lord Spock’s _kelek-aushfa_. His . . .” She paused, shook her head. “I do not know the Standard word.”

 

“How _is_ it that so many of you speak Standard so well?” It was something that Jim had been wondering since he had learned that his UT chip had died. “I’d been under the impression that most Vulcans didn’t bother with it unless they spent a lot of time with Humans.”

 

“It is a prerequisite for continued employment here. Lord Spock has an . . . eclectic way of speaking.”

 

Jim’s eyebrows shot up. “Eclectic how?”

 

“A mixture of Vulcan and Standard, primarily, though he often lapses into Terran English when his temper overtakes him.”

 

Jim couldn’t help a skeptical snort. “He was plenty pissed last night, but he didn’t start speaking in any obscure, half-dead languages.”

 

“He was severely displeased,” T’Sal corrected, “but I am certain that he still had full control over his temper.”

 

“Why, because he was still speaking Standard?”

 

“Among other things.”

 

“What other things?”

 

She turned just enough for him to see a single eyebrow wing up. “The fact that you are still walking, for one.”

 

Jim stopped walking. “You’re saying he’s violent.”

 

T’Sal turned when she realized that he was no longer beside her. “He is capable of violence,” she said frankly. “Surely that can not surprise you.”

 

Jim remembered waking that first night to a presence waiting in the dark, remembered a lamp torn from its moorings and hard, demanding hands. “I suppose not.” He began to walk again, and T’Sal matched his pace. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

 

“Your distaste for violence is surprising. You are a warrior yourself, are you not?”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Battle is a different set of circumstances.”

 

“Indeed. But there are different types of battles, are there not?” she asked pointedly. “Lord Spock picks his, and he does so wisely. In the ten years that I have served him, he has never allowed his temper to slip against an opponent who could not stand against him, or when doing so would bring a tactical disadvantage. A battle with one’s bondmate can not be won by force. You are in no danger from him.”

 

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Jim said quietly.

 

“I see.” T’Sal looked almost amused. “He did not cause my blindness,” she said after a moment. “Nor that of any who work here.”

 

“All right. Good to know.”

 

T’Sal’s lips twitched. “You need not be afraid to ask.”

 

Jim considered playing dumb for all of a moment before deciding that he might as well answer her bluntness in kind. “T’Perea said you weren’t born blind. How did it happen?”

 

“Venom from a _k’karee_. A type of snake,” she clarified, sounding as calm as she had when she had offered Jim his robes. “When I was six years old I wandered away from my mother and found a _k’karee_ sunning itself. I have few memories of sight left, but I remember the blue in its scales, and how its fins shone silver in the sun. And of course, I remember the pain.” She reached out to open a door, hand closing around the handle with unerring aim. “My mother heard me screaming and struck down the _k’karee_ before it could kill me, but my eyes were already too damaged to repair. The remaining tissue became infected, and eventually had to be removed.”

 

“That’s . . .” Jim trailed off, unable to find words that didn’t sound inadequate or dismissive. “I’m sorry,” he said instead, but T’Sal only shrugged.

 

“ _Kaiidth_. Regret will not restore my eyes, and even if it could, I have been in the dark for most of my life. I have learned to see with my ears and body and mind; I have no need of more.”

 

“Well. That’s admirable, but ah, I _haven’t_ learned to see without my eyes, and that hallway looks a little dark.”

 

“Oh! My apologies.” T’Sal stepped through the door, and a moment later a soft light appeared to the left. Jim followed and found his guide holding one of the lanterns that hung unlit throughout the castle. “It is rare that we have sighted guests,” she said when Jim caught up with her. “I have forgotten the habit.”

 

“Guests?” Jim asked, trying to keep his sudden excitement from showing. Guests meant transportation and a possible way out, and if there was a part of him that revolted at the very idea of leaving, he paid it no mind. “What sort of guests?”

 

“ _T’naehm-Feihan_ Sarek visits with the Lady Amanda when his schedule and Lord Spock’s mood permits.”

 

“Oh.” Jim’s heart sank. Spock’s parents were hardly likely to let him stow away with them. “Does that happen often?”

 

“No. They visited when it became clear that Lord Spock’s Time had finally come, but they did not stay long. Now that you are here, they will not come unless specifically invited, at the very least for the first year.”

 

“The first . . . fuck,” Jim muttered. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not staying here. I _can’t_ stay here. I have to go.”

 

She nodded, apparently unsurprised. “But _could_ you?” T’Sal asked, and Jim’s stomach clenched.

 

“I have to,” he said weakly. “Spock . . .” There was a sharp jab of emotion in his chest that Jim firmly ignored. “I didn’t sign on to be his prisoner.”

 

“Vulcan bonds are not chains.” The new voice sounded as they passed into yet another hallway, and Jim’s heart was still in his throat by the time Vlorik stepped into their lantern’s light. “Were that the case, our warriors could never leave their homes. Lord Spock will grow less jealous of your company in time.”

 

“Glad as I am for future-me,” Jim shot back, “that doesn’t really help me with my current obligations. If I don’t come back, Pike is gonna assume—”

 

“He will assume that the news of your bonding to Lord Spock was genuine,” Vlorik interrupted smoothly. “Your former unit will be well aware of your new status by now, and I am certain that your captain’s native advisors will have already briefed him on the questionable wisdom of attempting to take a Vulcan’s mate by force.”

 

“That’s not going to matter.” Jim dragged a weary hand over his eyes. “I’m well aware of the playing field here, so believe me when I say I wish to God it wasn’t true, but I know Pike. There are things . . .” He took a moment to fight back the memories that were trying to rise. “Things he won’t stand for. And there’s no way in hell he’s going to believe I’m here willingly without hearing it directly _from me_. Which he won’t, by the way, because I’m _not_ here willingly.”

 

“And given the chance, you would leave?”

 

Jim opened his mouth, closed it again. “I’d try,” was all he could say, and Vlorik nodded.

 

“I see.” He stepped out of the light again, and spoke from the darkness when he said, “I am keeping you from your destination. T’Sal, carry on, and remember that Master Jim is to receive all that he requests, within reasonable bounds.”

 

“Reasonable bounds? What—” Jim turned to T’Sal, unsure whether the ancient Vulcan was even still within earshot. “What does he mean, ‘reasonable bounds’?”

 

“We are not to aid in your departure,” she said, beginning to walk again, and Jim hurried to stay within the light. “Apart from that, Lord Spock has instructed us to provide you with anything you ask.”

 

“Anything?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So . . . if I asked for a weapon, you’d bring me one.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Really.” Jim blinked in surprise. “What if I used it on your master?”

 

T’Sal laughed outright at that. “You would not. But supposing that you did, in fact, manage to overcome the instinct to keep your bondmate safe—though perhaps,” she mused, “as a Human, you do not actually feel that instinct. Still. Assuming its absence or your own strength in overcoming it, do you truly believe that you could best him in combat?”

 

Jim glared after her. “I’m not a bad fighter myself, you know.”

 

“As you say,” she agreed, but he could hear the smile in her voice. Before he could protest, she reached out to open yet another door. “We have reached the courtyard,” she said, and a moment later Jim was overcome by a sudden blaze of light.

 

His vision cleared gradually, adjusting to the blinding mid-morning sun, and for the space of several breaths Jim thought that there must have been some mistake, that he had somehow been led well beyond the castle’s main walls. To his left the mountain rose in a nearly sheer cliff, but ahead the desert appeared to stretch out in a sea of red sand. It wasn’t until he had stood gaping for some time that Jim noticed the subtle winding of stone-lined paths, and the firmness of solid, rocky ground beneath the dunes. If he squinted, he could make out the wall that marked the edge of the courtyard. And turning to his right, he saw the tree.

 

“I’ve never . . . I didn’t know Vulcan had trees like that,” he heard himself say, unable to tear his eyes from the sight.

 

“It does not,” T’Sal replied. “Vlorik say that is one of Lady Amanda’s creations, a crossbreed between an _in-du-ka_ tree and a native Earth tree, I do not remember the name. It was planted on the day of Lord Spock’s birth, both hybrids half Terran and half Vulcan.”

 

Jim could see the truth of it. Its branches fell in the weeping willow’s thick curtains, but the leaves were the shimmering red that he recognized from nearly every oasis he’d seen on this planet, the shifting scarlet that said that water was waiting. There was an odd and unsettling beauty about it, its thin branches unmoving in the weak, hot breeze that swept against them. He found himself moving towards it without conscious thought.

 

“Is there anything inside?” he wondered aloud, trying to peer through the branches as he went.

 

“Indeed. It provides an adequate amount of shelter for—”

 

“Wait.” Jim took T’Sal by the arm and pulled her to a stop, his eyes narrowing at a sudden stirring in the branches. Too low to be T’Perea; perhaps a child, or—

 

“Shit,” he breathed as the branches continued to shift and the _sehlat_ came into view, licking its massive jaws clean even as drops of _something_ fell from its muzzle to the sands at its feet. “All right. It’s all right.” On instinct, Jim reached for his phaser, only to find the holster at his hip empty. He had no phaser, no knives, no weapons of any kind. “Shit,” he breathed again, and began to slowly back them up. “Try not to make any noise,” he whispered. “We might be able to get back inside before it—”

 

It was at that precise moment that the _sehlat_ stilled, lifting its head in the unmistakable posture of an animal that has caught a scent. Its eyes shifted to lock on Jim and T’Sal, and with a bellowing roar it began to gallop towards them before they could take so much as a step.

 

“Run!” Jim managed to yell, shoving T’Sal behind him in the hopes that he could at least buy her enough time to get back inside.

 

Then the beast was on him, tackling him to the ground and pinning him under several hundred pounds of muscle and fur. The heat was nearly unbearable, trapped between the scorching sand and the furnace of the _sehlat_ ’s body. Paws as large as Jim’s face pressed into his shoulders as the rest of the thing’s weight landed solidly on his thighs. Six-inch fangs protruded over a wet muzzle that was dripping something surprisingly cool onto Jim’s face while hot breath bathed his skin as the _sehlat_ . . . sniffed at him?

 

“I-Chaya, _kroykah_ ,” a voice spat, followed by a further rush of Vulcan that Jim couldn’t manage to untangle. The _sehlat_ lifted its head, and a moment later its weight shifted slowly off of him. “Master Jim, are you well?”

 

“Hey, T’Sal,” Jim panted, squinting up at the blazing rust-colored sky. “That word you said before, when I asked what I-Chaya was.”

 

“ _Kelek-aushfa_. However, I still do not remember—”

 

“Pet. I’m pretty sure word you’re looking for is _pet_.” He levered himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the screaming protest of his shoulders, and surveyed the scene before him. “So this is I-Chaya, huh?”

 

The _sehlat_ was seated between T’Perea and T’Sal staring back at him in unmistakable interest. Short of breath, Jim struggled to his feet and held out a tentative hand. I-Chaya craned his neck forward, wet nose snuffling at Jim’s palm for a moment before he ducked his head so that Jim’s hand landed between his ears. Jim couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“You’re not so scary after all.” He crouched back down to properly dig his fingers into I-Chaya’s thick fur, laughing again when the _sehlat_ leaned heavily into the touch and nearly knocked him over. “Friendly, aren’t you?” He glanced up to see that knowing looks had graced both women’s faces. “What?”

 

“He recognizes you,” T’Perea said simply, and Jim frowned.

 

“What do you mean? How could he possibly _recognize_ me?”

 

“I-Chaya is Lord Spock’s _kelek-aushfa_. His . . . pet. Vlorik says that it has been so since the master was a child,” T’Sal said. “He is well accustomed to your mate’s scent.”

 

“His . . .” Jim stood abruptly, gaping at both of them. “Are you telling me that I _smell_ like him? How is that even possible?”

 

“I am hardly a scientist,” T’Sal shrugged. “I can tell you only that something has changed. When you first arrived, your scent was quite appealing; now you are like any mated Vulcan.” One eyebrow lifted above the cloth across her eyes. “It is a surprising alteration.”

 

“None of us anticipated it,” T’Perea agreed.

 

“I don’t . . .” For some reason, all he could focus on was, “Are you telling me I stink?”

 

T’Perea’s lips twitched. “Not precisely. It is not entirely an identifiable scent; closer to a . . . _sense_. Any Vulcan will recognize you as part of a bonded pair.”

 

Jim was beginning to feel lightheaded with confusion. “I think I need to get out of the sun for a little while,” he said faintly.

 

I-Chaya rose to his feet again as if on cue, a sudden surge of muscle pressing against Jim’s legs until he was forced to take several stumbling steps. No sooner had he regained his balance than I-Chaya was there again; herding him, Jim realized suddenly, towards the towering tree.

 

“Is _everything_ in this place telepathic?” he muttered.

 

Strange as it was to be understood by the _sehlat_ , however, Jim didn’t resist. The tree would at least offer some protection from the sun. Jim’s clothes were sticking unpleasantly to his skin, already soaked through with sweat in places; he grudgingly admitted, if only to himself, that the robes T’Sal had offered would have been far more comfortable. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to wearing this much in the full heat of the day, and needed respite for a while. He could go back inside, but the thought left him feeling oddly trapped. Bad enough to know that the very desert held him hostage here; he didn’t need walls around him reinforcing the idea.

 

As Jim approached the tree he slowly became aware of the soft sound of moving water from beyond the curtain of leaves. That was unexpected. Oases formed around _in-du-ka_ trees because their long roots drew groundwater to the surface; there should have been no need for irrigation. Unless, he mused, having crossbred it with a willow had weakened that particular trait. Still, water was this planet’s most precious resource, and it seemed uncharacteristically wasteful for a Vulcan household to devote such a supply of it to something like this. Intrigued, Jim pushed through the hanging branches and found—

 

—a garden.

 

The trunk of the tree rose strong and tall in the center, supporting the dappled dome of leaves that fell in a circle easily forty feet across. It was cooler here, closer to the feel of a dry Earth summer than the furnace of Vulcan’s midday heat, and Jim took a deep, grateful breath of the sweetly perfumed air. He could see several typical oasis-born plants: _kaasa_ and _pla-savas_ bushes and creeping _hirat_ vines, delicate favinit blossoms amidst sharply spicy thatches of the herb Syrrik liked to add to almost everything he ate. And scattered among the others, Jim realized, were Earth flowers, as well. Daisy-shaped blooms in vivid reds and yellows; the full, lush bloom of some sort of white rose; and from somewhere out of sight rose the sweet, unmistakable scent of lavender.

 

There were patches of soft-looking ground cover between the blooms, and around the base of the tree where its roots rose out of the ground, a pool of water bubbled up in what looked like a natural spring. Jim drifted closer and bent down to trail his fingers in the gentle current; the water was cool against his skin, and he nearly shivered in delight.

 

“This is amazing,” he said under his breath, laughing softly as I-Chaya pushed past him to drink.

 

“Lady Amanda’s work as well,” T’Sal’s voice answered, and Jim turned to see that she and T’Perea had joined him. “In honor of her son, as is the tree itself. Its roots reach deeper than the native plant’s, and draw the water more forcefully; the leaves shield enough of our sun’s light for alien plants to thrive.”

 

“Its own little ecosystem. Sulu would go nuts over this place,” Jim mused, imagining his friend’s raptures over Terran and Vulcan plants growing in the same soil. The thought, however, brought his previous misgivings back in a sudden rush, and the smile faded from his face.

 

“Perhaps he would enjoy a token from your new home,” T’Sal suggested. “The _pla-savas_ is nearly ripe; you could send—”

 

“That may not be a wise idea,” T’Perea interrupted with a frown, and T’Sal turned to her.

 

“We have orders from Lord Spock himself, do we not? His mate is welcome to anything within these walls; he did not specify that it must _remain_ within these walls.”

 

T’Perea’s frown deepened, but she made no further argument. Jim, however, stepped forward.

 

“I’m not doing anything else that’s going to get one of you in trouble,” he said firmly, and both women turned back towards him. “I wanted to apologize, T’Perea. If I’d made myself clearer—”

 

“You had no reason to believe it was necessary to do so.” Her face darkened slightly. “I am certain that your thoughts were perfectly clear on the matter; you are not at fault for my having misread them.”

 

Jim frowned at her words, confused, but she looked as uncomfortable as she had been when he had commented on her fair hair, and he didn’t want to press. “Well.” He looked around again, feeling awkward. “I still feel at least partially responsible. Can I . . . help, maybe?”

 

“With what?”

 

“With him.” Jim jerked a thumb over his shoulder before belatedly remembering that neither of them could see him. Grateful for the fact that at least he was the only witness to his own embarrassment, he cleared his throat. “With I-Chaya. Maybe I can help with whatever it is you’re doing.”

 

T’Perea’s face brightened. “He _does_ seem to like you. And he requires a great deal of exercise.”

 

“T’Perea,” T’Sal began sternly, but the other woman’s eyebrow merely lifted in amusement.

  
“He is welcome to anything within these walls, is he not? Surely that extends to time with his mate’s _kelek-aushfa_ , if that is how he wishes to spend his time.”

 

As it turned out, he did. T’Sal excused herself while T’Perea and Jim remained in the courtyard with I-Chaya. While Jim had little luck teaching the _sehlat_ to fetch the _kaasa_ he threw, they both enjoyed the chase and Jim’s attempts to wrestle the half-mangled fruit away. Jim’s clothes were completely soaked through within an hour, and he took frequent trips to the garden’s cooler air and the refreshing water of its spring. When the sun had reached its zenith they remained there, sheltered by the canopy of leaves and sharing the ripe fruit picked from heavy-hung branches.

 

Accustomed to the planet’s conditions as Jim was, he was also still not completely recovered from the days and nights that he and Spock had spent locked around each other, and by the time twilight fell he was completely exhausted. I-Chaya pressed against his hip in farewell and padded into the darkness while T’Sal awaited Jim with lamp in hand. Dinner was laid out for him as it had been on his first night there, though in significantly smaller quantity. He ate almost without tasting and forced his feet to carry him through the maze of corridors, T’Sal’s light blurring and sharpening with every blink of his eyes.

 

Jim considered a bath, and got as far as stripping off his filthy clothes before falling facedown onto the bed and instantly asleep.

 

He awoke in the dark to a buzzing sensation beneath his skin and heat pooling low in his belly. Propping himself up on his elbows, Jim licked his lips and spoke to the darkness.

 

“I saw the tree your mother planted.” His voice was rough with sleep and banked arousal, and he heard a shifting in the shadows.

 

“Yes.” Spock’s voice licked over him like flame. “You smell of the sun.”

 

Jim’s heart thumped harder. He could feel Spock’s desire for him, but little else, and he frowned. “Something’s different.”

 

“You seemed disquieted by our bond. I have shielded it as much as I can bear.”

 

“Oh.” Jim blinked, but the darkness remained as thick as ever. “I’m sorry,” he found himself saying.

 

“For what?”

 

“For not being what you need. You deserve . . .” Jim’s mind was still cloudy with exhaustion, and the words eluded him. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

 

“You are mistaken.” The words came from so close that Jim could practically taste them. “You are _precisely_ what I require. I knew it the moment I touched you; you will know it as well, when I touch you again.”

 

Jim couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through him at Spock’s declaration any more than he could stop the hardening of his traitorous flesh. “That’s . . . probably not a good idea.”

 

A ghost of breath skated across his cheek. “As you say,” Spock murmured, and the warmth that Jim had hardly been aware of withdrew.

 

He blinked again, tying to conceal his disappointment. “Realizing you’re wrong already?”

 

“I am not wrong. But nor am I eager for the same rejection that I endured before. I am accustomed to going without another's touch; I will not share your bed again until you ask. Until you _beg_.”

 

Jim glared at nothing. “I don’t beg.”

 

A ripple of alien amusement slid through his mind. “Then sleep,” Spock said, and despite himself, Jim obeyed.  
  
  
  
  
[>>Part 6](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/81562.html)

  
  
  
  
  
  
 


	6. The Prophecy of Apollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first part of my fill for [](http://rynne.livejournal.com/profile)[**rynne**](http://rynne.livejournal.com/) , who won my [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_japan**](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)  auction!  The next part will be coming just as soon as I can bully my brain into functioning properly.

**Title:** The Prophecy of Apollo  
 **Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot (AU)  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** My cats own all, I own nothing.  They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse.  Cats, you make terrible agents!  Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.  
 **Summary:** AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?  
 **Author's Note:** This chapter is the first part of my fill for [](http://rynne.livejournal.com/profile)[**rynne**](http://rynne.livejournal.com/)  , who won my [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_japan**](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)  auction!  The next part will be coming just as soon as I can bully my brain into functioning properly.

 

 

 

  


 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/67370.html) | [Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68507.html) | [Part 3](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68726.html) | [Part 4](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/69503.html) | [Part 5](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/75580.html)

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You smell of the sun again. You have been outside.”

 

“Helped T'Perea exercise I-Chaya again.” Jim reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes. “I really wish you wouldn't make her do that; she doesn't deserve to be punished, and I-Chaya makes her nervous.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Jim blinked into the darkness. “Really? That's all? I just ask and . . . 'very well'?”

 

“You may find that I am inclined to provide you with anything you may ask for.” Jim could feel the heat of Spock's body move closer, smell the warm, spicy scent of him, and every nerve in his body seemed to suddenly quiver in anticipation. “Especially,” he added in dark, rich tones, “if you ask me sweetly.”

 

Jim's mouth had gone dry. “I don't beg,” he reminded Spock, and their bond opened just enough for him to feel a thin sliver of amusement.

 

“So I have been assured.”

 

Spock moved away again; the air felt cooler despite the constant oppressive heat, and Jim caught himself leaning after it. It was more than just a physical reaction as well; his mind was yearning towards that one fleeting touch as much as his body ached for the feel of Spock's skin against his. He had to shake himself sharply to come back to himself, and would have sworn he could _feel_ Spock's smirk from across the room.

 

“What if I ask for something you don't want to give me?” Jim asked when he was relatively sure he could speak without his voice shaking. Spock gave a thoughtful hum that sent a shiver down Jim's spine.

 

“Ask me and find out.”

 

_I want to see you_ , Jim very nearly said. But even half-asleep he knew what the answer to that would be; there was time enough to get his way later on. The full implications of that thought hit him after a moment, and he flushed.

 

“A computer,” he heard himself say abruptly, not even fully aware of what he meant to ask for until the words had left his mouth. “I want to send a message to Pike.”

 

There was silence for a long moment, long enough that Jim might have suspected that Spock had left the room if not for the fact that he could still  _sense_ him there.

 

“He will not succeed in taking you from this place,” Spock said flatly. _From me_ remained unsaid, but Jim could hear it clearly nevertheless.

 

“And I give you my word I won't ask him to try.” Jim frowned uselessly into the darkness. “I don't want them to risk getting injured or . . .” He swallowed heavily. “Not over me. Those people—Pike, Number One, all of them—they're the closest thing to family I have.”

 

Spock moved closer; Jim could feel it even through the blackness that surrounded him.

 

“No longer, Jim,” he said quietly, and just like that he moved away again. “What is in my power to give you, you shall have. Now rest.”

 

“I'd rest better with you here.”

 

He hadn't meant to say that, either, but as before the words slipped out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up. There was a long, pregnant pause, and Jim found himself leaning forward again.

 

“Are you asking me into your bed?” Spock said at last.

 

_Yes_ . Jim caught himself this time, though he had to literally bite his tongue to keep quiet.

 

“I'm . . . making sure you know it's an open invitation.”

 

“That is not enough.”

 

“Why _isn't_ it?” Jim scowled. “You know I want you; you have to know that.”

 

“Indeed.” Spock's voice didn't quite sound steady. “However, _I_ want . . . more.”

 

Jim fell asleep before he could manage a suitable response.

 

The next morning dawned as bright and hot as the ones before; despite the heat, Jim had T'Sal show him the way down to the pools he had been taken to when he arrived. After soaking there for as long as he could stand, the air in the rest of the castle felt cool by comparison. Even so, he was sweating again by the time he sat down to eat, and his clothes were already starting to stick to his body.

 

“When you have finished your meal,” Vlorik said, pouring a large glass of the iced tea he tried very hard to pretend he didn't disapprove of, “there is a delivery that awaits your attention.”

 

Jim paused with a soft  _kriela_ halfway to his mouth. “ _My_ attention?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Hmm.” Jim chewed thoughtfully. “Who's it from?”

 

“The Lady Amanda,” Vlorik replied calmly, and Jim nearly choked. “She has sent the traditional _telik-tanan_.”

 

“The . . .” Jim had to pause to cough and clear his throat with half the glass of cold, spiced tea. “Sorry, the traditional what now?”

 

“ _Telik-tanan_.” Vlorik's lips quirked up slightly. “In Standard, a . . . wedding gift, I believe is the closest approximation.”

 

Jim swore softly under his breath. “You don't need me for that. Just put it . . . wherever. I don't care.”

 

“I am afraid that your attention _is_ required,” Vlorik countered. “There is a message attached that is addressed to you personally, and to be delivered into your hands only.”

 

A nervous, crawling sensation took up residence in Jim's stomach, and he looked at the rest of his food with regret. “All right,” he sighed after a moment, tossing his napkin onto the table. “Let's go.”

 

“You need not interrupt your meal—”

 

“Skipping the last course isn't going to kill me,” Jim snapped. “Let's just get this over with.”

 

Though clearly disapproving, Vlorik led the way through the dark, twisting corridors. Jim tried, as always, to keep track of where they turned, of how many doors they went through, but it was useless. The way was too convoluted, and eventually he simply gave up and followed the bobbing light of the lantern that Vlorik held.

 

They emerged through the final door into the blaze of mid-morning sun, and Jim spent several long moments struggling to adjust his eyes. When he finally managed to make out his surroundings he found himself in yet another part of the fortress that he had never seen before. They were higher up than he had thought; he could see the very edge of the city below, and the vast stretch of sand beyond, bordered in the south by the curve of the mountains. The stretch of ground beneath their feet was huge, as long as the garden courtyard and easily twice as wide, a sea of flat, hot stone. A handful of speeders gleamed in the sun, and Jim realized that they had walked out onto a landing pad.

 

Slightly apart from the speeders was a _Zephyr_ , and next to it stood a tall Vulcan with hair that just barely brushed his shoulders. Beside him was a heavy square wooden crate, the top of it as high as his hip. His gaze flicked continually between the crate, the city below, and the half-dozen attendants who stood in a loose half-circle between him and the door. Jim slipped through with a hand on T'Mira's shoulder in silent greeting, and abruptly the new Vulcan's attention was entirely fixed on him.

 

“My lord,” he said with a bow, as Jim took a quick moment to size him up.

 

Tall, as he had noted before, but thin, even for a Vulcan. He wore K'tash armor, but it was stiff and new, and in places seemed to gap or bind. Not a newly-made warrior, then; a courier, Jim guessed, overly nervous about his trip to The City of Shadows.

 

“I'm not a lord,” Jim said absently. “I was told that you have something for me?”

 

“Indeed.” The man bowed again and gestured to the crate at his side. “A _telik-tanan_ from the Lady Amanda and her lord. And a message from my lady's own hand for her _sa-fu k'war'ma'khon_.”

 

Jim fought the urge to shake his head at that impossible tangle of sounds. “Her what now?”

 

“Her . . .” The man visibly struggled for the words. “Son,” he said at last, “yet not her son. As close as family, though unrelated.”

 

“I see.” For a moment, Jim wondered why no one had bothered to teach him the phrase _son-in-law_. Soon, however, he remembered T'Pring; a son-in-law, he supposed, hadn't been entirely expected. “I . . . appreciate the gesture,” he said, despite not being entirely sure that that was true. He glanced at the waiting ship, quiet and still as any of the others. “You really didn't have to wait for me, though.”

 

“I was instructed to deliver the _telik-tanan_ into your hands, and none other.”

 

“You could've waited inside, then. We can get you something to drink, if you want.”

 

“No.” The courier twitched slightly in what looked like an aborted step backwards. “Your generosity is appreciated, but the courtesy is unnecessary. He reached into his vest and pulled out an envelope, thrusting it quickly at Jim. “My lady extends her regards, and her wishes that an introduction may not be long in coming.” He did step back then, glancing almost hopefully towards his _Zephyr_. “If my lord is satisfied . . .”

 

Another protestation of the title was on Jim's lips, but he bit it back with a sigh. “You're free to go whenever you like,” he said.

 

With one more quick, cursory bow, the courier headed for his ship as swiftly as his dignity would allow.

 

“He was a little skittish,” Jim remarked as the _Zephyr_ lifted with a whisper of sound and shot away.

 

“Most are, upon their arrival,” Vlorik replied. “ Da’kum’Ulcha is a place most sane men avoid if the have the choice.”

 

Jim turned to answer him, saw the line of waiting Vulcans staring back with blank, empty eyes, and snorted instead. “I don't think it's just the city,” he muttered, and turned his attention to the envelope in his hand.

 

It wasn't thick, but the paper was fine. Real Terran paper, stuff that Jim hadn't seen in years. It was expensive even on Earth; this far out, it would be worth nearly as much as a comparably-sized sheet of gold. The Lady Amanda had expensive tastes, it seemed. Jim couldn't help but be oddly grateful for it; it made him think of his father's books, Pike's now and stored securely in a facility back on Earth. Nostalgia swept over him for a long moment before Jim roused himself again and broke through the heavy purple wax seal.

 

Inside was a single sheet of paper, as fine as the envelope and adorned with even, graceful handwriting.

 

_Dear Jim,_

 

_First and foremost, I wish to thank you. You have given me a gift beyond what I can possibly hope to repay—you have given me my son's life, and for that I owe you more than I can say._

 

_I will not attempt to speak for Spock, to communicate his regard and affection for you. It is a difficult thing, at times, being bonded to a Vulcan; my son occasionally forgets that Humans are not by nature telepathic, and may neglect to speak aloud when it is most necessary for him to do so. I encourage you to remind him of this need, and don't be afraid to inform him when he is being stubborn and self-involved. Love him as I do, I will not pretend that he is entirely without flaws._

 

_The circumstances of your bonding were, I know, unorthodox at best. Know, however, that you could not have seen him whole and sane through his Time without a true connection and compatibility between your minds. My son has seen too much cruelty and rejection in his life; I ask only that you allow yourself the chance to experience all that this bond might be for both of you. And if you do not believe that is possible, I ask only that you break his heart quickly. Do not allow him to suffer more than necessary._

 

_Though life here may can be difficult, with the aid of others it need not be unpleasant. It is traditional for the_ telik-tanan _to be something that will ease the life of a newly bonded pair. With you, Spock has everything he may need. My gift, therefore, is for you. When you find yourself in difficulty, may you remember that at least one Human will be able to relate._

 

_Yours in hope,_

_Lady Amanda Greyson_

 

 

“Well.” Jim refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope with slightly unsteady fingers. “I'd always sort of wondered what a motherly guilt-trip would be like.”

 

“My lord?”

 

Jim shook his head. “Nevermind. Do we have anything to get this open?” he asked, indicating the crate.

 

Several pairs of Vulcan hands proved equal to the task, prying the wooden lid away with hardly a trace of effort. Curious despite himself, Jim moved to look inside and could have wept with gratitude. Safely packed in layers of padding were boxes of tri-ox hypospray cartridges. A set of bright new hyposprays were carefully wrapped on top, and there were easily enough cartridges inside to last him several months—more, if he didn't eventually find something more physical to keep himself occupied.

 

Jim reached in and drew out a box of cartridges, loaded one of the hyposprays, and shot the dose into the side of his neck.

 

The faint sting had barely faded when the compound hit his blood, and while the scorching heat didn't lessen at all, it was far easier to bear as his lungs seemed to fill with a sudden rush of air. Jim closed his eyes for a moment as relief washed over him, the pleasure of being able to take a proper breath rushing back after having been nearly forgotten. Thoughts he hadn't realized were fuzzy began to clear; he suddenly felt ready to take on the world.

 

“Okay.” He took another deep breath, simply because he could, and turned back to Vlorik. “I need a computer.”

 

The terminal they found him was in what appeared to be an abandoned study deep within the fortress. It was noticeably cooler there, and Jim's suspicion that it had once been occupied by Lady Amanda seemed borne-out by the faded notes scrawled over sheets of  _dun-yar_ paper that Jim found stuffed in one of the desk drawers. The terminal was up-to-date and fully functional, however, which was all Jim cared about at the moment.

 

The portable terminals Pike's unit was equipped with were Terran-design rather than Vulcan, and it took Jim a few minutes to figure out how to navigate to the necessary program. When he finally had the video ready to record he took another moment to go through his mental script one more time before he finally reached out to start his message.

 

“Hey.” Jim smiled at the screen, hands folded loosely on the desk in front of him. “I don't know what the K'tash have told you, how much detail you got, but I wanted to let you know I'm all right. There's been a . . . ah . . .” He reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “Sort of a snag. Tell Uhura she was right about there being something off in the translation, if she hasn't already figured it out yet,” he added wryly.

 

“The point is, I'm fine, so don't get any bright ideas about coming to extract me. You'd never be able to,” he said bluntly, “and I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me. I don't know when I'll . . . Spock isn't really crazy about the idea of me leaving, and I . . .”

 

He tapped his fingers together absently, his planned script abandoning him. Anything that he might say about his own feelings, his own desires, felt like a lie. He wanted to go. He wanted to stay. If he could find his way again, there was a small fleet of speeders waiting. He had tri-ox and water and could pick as much fruit as he needed from the garden. Yet the idea of leaving made his stomach clench. Unable to choose, then, he settled for clearing his throat and moving on.

 

“I'll get in touch with you again when I can. Good hunting.”

 

Jim switched off the recorder and sent the file to Pike's personal account before he sat back, his heart beating faster. The message was simple, straightforward, but Pike would be watching carefully. Jim hadn't been able to work in much information with his hands without being obvious about it, but the little he'd managed should be enough to put Pike on his guard.  _Vulcans, job, wrong, back off_ . It was enough to get Pike thinking, anyway. Jim hoped. And once he started looking— _really_ looking—between him and Number One they should be able to spot some discrepancy between the camps they'd been raiding and the major trade route they were supposedly disrupting.

 

It was the best he could do for now. He spent the rest of the day with I-Chaya, and tried not to worry.

 

“I wonder,” Spock's voice said, low and deep when Jim awoke in the dark that night, “if I could taste the sun on your skin as well as smell it.”

 

Barely awake and already primed by the ready desire that was flowing through their bond, Jim felt himself grow half-hard at the suggestion. “You could try and find out,” he said, stretching languorously and enjoying the sharp intake of breath from the shadows.

 

“You are taunting me.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You spend a great deal more time outside than I had anticipated,” Spock said after a moment, and Jim had to grin.

 

“Didn't expect me to get you quite so hot and bothered this easily?”

 

Jim thought he felt something like amusement. “Are you flaunting your scent  _deliberately_ ?”

 

“No.” Jim stretched again, arching his hips a bit so that the sheet covering him slid lower. “But it's a nice side-effect.”

 

There was a low growling sound, and then the heat of Spock's body was close enough to feel. “You provoke me at your peril.”

 

The words were breathed mere inches away from Jim's lips, and for a moment his mind went blank at the sensation.

 

“I'm here for the taking, Spock,” he said quietly, his heart hammering and his flesh fully hard now. “But I won't beg.”

 

For a moment those hot puffs of breath continued to fall against his skin. They withdrew before he could lean up to capture Spock's lips with his, and Jim collapsed back against the pillows.

 

“Your mom was right,” he muttered. “You're fucking _stubborn as hell_.”

 

“A trait I believe I likely inherited from her,” came the disgruntled reply, and Jim laughed.

 

“I can believe that.”

 

“May I make a personal query?” Spock asked after a moment, and Jim had to laugh again.

 

“At this point? I don't see why not.”

 

There was a pregnant pause, and then, “You find me . . . desirable. Our minds are uncommonly well matched; nevertheless, I am willing to keep our bond shielded if you prefer it. You appear to enjoy my company.”

 

“Spock—”

 

“Why do you wish to leave?”

 

“It's not that simple.” Jim sat up, running his hands over his face. “It's not about you, it's . . . we _just met_ , and . . .” His protests sounded feeble even to his own ears, and Jim struggled to ignore the part of him insisting that he _didn't_ want to leave, tried to focus on why he couldn't. “I can't live . . . like this,” he said at last. “I can't stay here when the highlight of the day is taking your pet for a walk. It's just not who I am, Spock.”

 

There was another long pause.

 

“If you had something more stimulating to occupy your time, then,” Spock said eventually, “you would be more inclined to stay?”

 

“I—”

 

“I will arrange it.”

 

“ _Spock—_ ”

 

“I will convince you, Jim.” Spock was so close that Jim could feel him again, close enough to have Jim's head swimming with the urge to reach out and touch. “You have only to give me the chance.”

 

_That's what I'm afraid of_ , Jim thought as he slumped back against the bed, and didn't fall asleep until long after Spock had left the room.

 

He had managed to put it out of his mind by morning, but he had barely finished his breakfast when Vlorik appeared at his elbow, filmy white eyes fixed on Jim in that way he still found profoundly unsettling.

 

“If you have finished, Master Jim, we may begin.”

 

Jim stared up at him for a moment, wiping his mouth. “Begin what, exactly?”

 

Vlorik simply raised an eyebrow. “Your assessment. Lord Spock informed me that you wished to take a more active role in the duties here.”

 

“Ah.” Jim frowned. “I don't know if that's _exactly—_ ”

 

“Your combat skills will, of course, need to be assessed before we can determine your eligibility.”

 

“See, that's—my combat skills?” Despite himself, Jim could feel his interest piquing. “What does that have to do with anything?”

 

“Provided you are suitably skilled, my lord suggested that you may be interested in assisting with training the house guard.” He stepped away from the table. “If you will follow me.”

 

Jim scrambled to his feet and hurried after the elderly Vulcan. “There's a house guard?”

 

“Certainly.” There was clear amusement in Vlorik's voice as he led the way. “You do not imagine that Lord Spock is foolish enough to equip a fortress such as this with less than full protection?”

 

“Why haven't I seen any guard before, then?”

 

“You have,” Vlorik assured him. “Many times over.”

 

“That doesn't make any—”

 

“Suffice it to say,” Vlorik interrupted, “there is adequate protection within our walls. Constant training, however, is a necessity, especially since our forces are only rarely tested against an outside opponent.”

 

Jim thought of the trek through the city, the long climb up the mountain. “I'd imagine so.” He shrugged. This was, at least, something to do. “So what do I have to do to 'prove my eligibility'?”

 

“You will have to spar against the opponent Lord Spock has selected.”

 

Jim nodded thoughtfully. It would be a challenge, certainly. But he'd already taken his tri-ox, and he had several years' experience fighting Vulcans working in his favor. The captain might be stronger, but Jim had a sneaky, slippery fighting style that usually confused the hell out of Vulcan opponents.

 

Vlorik led the way outside, into a small courtyard. There was no oasis waiting here, just heat and sun and sand, and the diminutive T'Mira with a selection of weapons and a small med kit at the ready. Jim tried not to think about needing medical attention as he stretched, loosening up his muscles. As the full heat of the sun hit him he remembered again the soft robes he had rejected, but swiftly put the thought aside. They might keep him cooler, but his own clothes were what he was accustomed to fighting in. The sacrifice of comfort for familiarity and mobility was one Jim was used to.

 

“So who's my opponent?” he asked savoring the first trickles of adrenaline through his system. He glanced back to see Vlorik lift an amused eyebrow.

 

“I am.”

 

For a moment the words refused to sink in. When they finally did, Jim dropped his hands to his sides and tried to control the fury that was slowly bubbling to the surface.

 

“That son of a bitch,” he said softly; Vlorik tilted his head curiously.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

“Is there— _yes_ , there's a _fucking_ problem!” Jim spun away, pacing across the sand with long, angry steps. “Is this a _joke_ to him? Does he think I'm an idiot? Is that it? Because I'd have to be not to see this for the _completely fucking obvious_ set-up that it is!”

 

“I am uncertain—”

 

“He needs me to help train his house guard,” Jim said derisively. “Have to _prove_ myself. Prove myself against the blind man old enough to be my great-grandfather.”

 

“Ah.” There was a smile playing around Vlorik's mouth despite the insult. “Allow me to assure you, I am a far more capable opponent than I appear.”

 

“I'm going to kill him,” Jim muttered.

 

“I am afraid that fighting me is the only option available to you,” Vlorik said calmly. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to abstain from the duties you have been offered.”

 

Jim glared at him. “All right.” He stalked back to the center of the courtyard where Vlorik was waiting. “But we're not using weapons. Hand-to-hand.”

 

“As you say.” Vlorik settled his weight into a fighting stance, and Jim did the same. “At your leisure.”

 

Blood boiling, Jim struck out harder than he had originally intended, wanting only to get this farce over with as quickly as possible.

 

He hardly saw the old Vulcan move; one moment he was there and the next Jim's fist was whistling through empty air. There was a hard crack against his elbow, and only long experience allowed him to move with the impact to keep the bone from shattering. He stumbled forward two steps before he regained his balance and whirled to face his opponent again.

 

Vlorik moved before Jim had completed his turn, but anticipating a move this time Jim was able to avoid the sweeping kick sent his way. He tried a kick of his own, and Vlorik nearly caught his leg in mid-air; he was a hair too slow to manage it, but still deflected the blow with his forearm and danced back out of reach.

 

It was like no fight Jim had ever experienced. Blind he may have been, but it seemed that the Vulcan was just as capable of seeing with the senses remaining to him. Jim's usual series of feints and false starts were almost useless, though he did manage a sharp blow to the crown of Vlorik's head that sent a steady trickle of green blood flowing down his face. Against another opponent, that may have been more effective; when blood dripped into his eyes, however, Vlorik took no notice. And though Jim managed another handful of strikes, before long he found himself face-down in the sand, his arms twisted behind his back with a bony knee pressing hard against his spine.

 

“Okay,” he groaned, “I yield.” Jim started laughing then, even when his arms dropped with graceless thumps to the ground and half his body felt like a giant bruise. Still laughing, he rolled over onto his back. “All right,” he managed after a moment. “Point taken.”

 

“You might have beaten him,” T'Mira said, kneeling next to him and opening the med kit, “were your mind not so expansive.”

 

“Fix Vlorik up first,” he said, trying to wave her away and still fighting against the urge to laugh at his own idiocy. “He's bleeding.”

 

“He is seeing to his own injuries.”

 

Jim levered his head up despite his muscles' protests. Sure enough, the older Vulcan was cleaning away the blood on his face with methodical, efficient swipes, a hefty portion of the medkit's contents arranged carefully in his lap. Jim let his head fall back down and didn't try to move while T'Mira began to run the dermal regenerator over the worst of his injuries.

 

“What do you mean, my mind's expansive?” he asked after a moment.

 

“It is . . .” She paused, searching for the words to explain. “Searching. Without full contact from your bondmate, it attempts to compensate by reaching for contact with the minds closest to it. It makes your thoughts . . . loud.”

 

Jim did move away then, but T'Mira seemed to be finished and didn't protests. “How do you know I don't have  _full contact_ with Spock right now?”

 

“T'Perea found your mind quite well-contained when she attended you after our master's _pon farr_. Though her telepathic powers are limited, as she was touching you I have no reason to doubt her assessment. It is not, therefore, merely your Human brain's reaction to a bond. The logical conclusion is that your bond has been blocked in some way, and your mind is now seeking alternative contact.”

 

“That . . .” Jim trailed off, unsure what, exactly, he was meant to say to that. It made him uncomfortable, somehow, the idea that others might know that the bond he shared with Spock was blocked off.

 

“I did not mean to suggest that you should maintain contact simply for a tactical advantage,” T'Mira assured him.

 

“All right.” Jim shifted uneasily, stood. “I wouldn't do that, anyway.”

 

T'Mira stood as well, nodding. “I do not blame you.”

 

Jim's head felt like it was swimming, like he was trying to understand a language that he didn't quite speak. “Why's that?”

 

“Lord Spock's mind is . . . unsettling,” she said. “None here would question your desire to limit contact with it.”

 

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” Jim asked sharply, and T'Mira tilted her head uncertainly.

 

“We all presented ourselves as candidates to see our lord through this Time. Just as we serve him, and guard him, to assist him in such a way would have been . . .”

 

“An honor,” Jim said hoarsely, remembering Sakkint's words, and T'Mira nodded.

 

“None of our minds were compatible. The feel of his is . . .” She turned away, clearly hesitant to continue.

 

“Unsettling.” Jim could only look at her. “Right.”

 

It was all he could think of for the rest of the day. Through Vlorik's explanation of their training schedule, through eating his meals and exercising I-Chaya and sitting with his feet dangling in the cool water of the garden oasis, Jim's mind could only focus on Spock. He tried to imagine what it must have been like—reaching out for mind after mind and encountering only unease, or disgust, or cold duty. How many times must Spock have endured that in his life to send him here, to this desolate piece of land where only the desperate dared to go?

 

How long had it been since Spock had been touched by someone who  _wanted_ to?

 

Jim awoke that night to the faint sense of laughter trickling into the back of his mind, and rolled onto his back with a smile on his face. “You're in a good mood.”

 

“Vlorik tells me that your assessment took an unexpected turn.”

 

For one breathless moment Jim could only think of what T'Mira had said; then he remembered the feel of sand pressed roughly against his cheek as his arms were nearly dislocated, and managed a weak laugh.

 

“I suppose you could say that.”

 

“He also said that you fought well. That you came very close to defeating him.”

 

“That's what—yeah, I guess so.” He licked his lips and sat up. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“You may ask me anything.”

 

“Why do they need me? Why not train them yourself?”

 

“I have many other responsibilities,” Spock said stiffly. “I do not have the time.”

 

Jim nodded slowly. “Okay.”

 

“You do not believe me.”

 

“Not really, no.” As Jim's eyes futilely searched the darkness, he became aware that his mind was doing the same. _Searching_ , T'Mira had said. “I think there's something you're not telling me.”

 

“It is . . . difficult,” Spock said at last, “to instruct the blind in combat without touching them.” There was a restless, shifting sound. “Nor will they use their full strength against me. They think me _weak_ , a _tselsu_ ,” he spat, and while Jim might not have understood the word the sentiment was entirely clear.

 

“Maybe they just don't want to hurt you,” he offered quietly.

 

“I am a warrior of the K'tash clan, heir to my father the High Warlord. I do not require their concern.”

 

“What about your bondmate's concern?”

 

The room went suddenly and entirely quiet, and Jim realized that it was the first time he had referred to himself that way.

 

“Are you worried for me, _t'nash veh kin-kur_?” Spock murmured, and suddenly he was close enough to feel, close enough to smell, close enough for the heat of him to sink all the way down to Jim's bones and the last of Jim's patience broke with an almost audible _snap_.

 

“Please.” His voice was rough, his body nearly vibrating with need. “Please, Spock, let me touch you.”

 

The low, desperate sound Spock made was still ringing in the air when his body collided with Jim's, knocking him on his back and pinning him there while he took Jim's mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. Jim's entire body seemed to sigh in relief, and he surged up to meet him, tangling his hands in the long, silken strands that tumbled down around him. Spock was still fully-clothed, and Jim pushed and tugged impatiently at the fabric until there was nothing but bare skin beneath his hands. Then with a sudden twist, he rolled them over, and the fact that Spock  _let_ him only made his desire burn hotter.

 

Jim draped himself over Spock, touching every inch of him that he could reach, running his hands greedily over hot skin and firm muscle, coarse hair scraping against his fingertips as his mouth trailed gradually lower. He savored the sound of Spock's breathing growing heavier as Jim trailed his tongue over a flat stomach to circle the faint jut of Spock's hipbone. Spock's hands skimmed over Jim's shoulders, slid into his hair, unfailingly gentle despite the inferno that Jim could feel building through their bond.

 

By the time he took Spock into his mouth, Jim was leaking onto the bedsheets, grinding his hips into the mattress in a desperate search for friction. The feel of Spock's cock heavy against his tongue was ridiculously good, and Jim started bobbing his head in earnest, relishing the feel of Spock sliding wetly between his lips. His hands wouldn't stay still; they gripped at Spock's hipbones, slipped up his sides, rubbed over his chest and down his stomach. The feel of all that smooth skin beneath his palms made him shudder and moan, and Spock groaned as the fingers in Jim's hair curled into a fist. Jim slid his hands between Spock's body and the mattress to cup his ass, to rub hard up and down his back, determined, if he couldn't see Spock, to learn him entirely by touch and by taste.

 

The hand in Jim's hair tugged, pulling him up and away, and Jim felt a hard grip circle his hip, a moment of sudden vertigo, then warm fingers spreading him open for one to work inside of him. Spock's touch was slick and firm and ruthless, and Jim reached out blindly until he encountered warm skin, slid his palms over Spock's legs where they stretched above his head. When he realized that his head was resting next to Spock's hip he leaned forward and bit, licking his way to the crease at the top of one leg and following it down to Spock's waiting cock. That earned him a second finger, and Jim started rocking back and forth, moaning as Spock filled him from either end.

 

It was cruel, delicious torture, and Spock had barely added a third finger by the time Jim tore himself away, keeping his hands braced against Spock's chest and stomach to keep himself oriented as he swung around to straddle Spock's thighs. He reached out, following the strong, smooth line of Spock's arm until he found his hand, still slick with oil, and brought their joined fingers to Spock's waiting cock. Spock groaned heavily as they moved together, hands slip-sliding over each other. Reluctantly, Jim pulled his hand away, and Spock's grip immediately shifted to his hips, dragging him forward as they both cried out at the sensation. Jim reached down, felt Spock hard and pulsing in his grasp, and held him still while he sank down, taking him inside an inch at a time.

 

He felt himself open. Felt Spock press inside, hot and hard and thick, stretching him, filling him and bright electric jolts sparked up the length of Jim's spine as he began to move.

 

Jim's thighs slid against Spock's sides, slick with the sweat dripping off of him. He braced his hands on Spock's chest, twisting his fingers in the thick hair here to keep from sliding, and Spock's hands drifted back to cup Jim's ass as he began to move. His sense of balance was shaky in the dark, but Spock's hold kept him grounded, supporting without trying to influence, letting Jim set the speed and force he wanted.

 

Jim moved faster, harder, lost in the sensation of the body beneath his. But still, something within him was stretching,  _searching_ , and his mind followed the flood of heat filtering through their bond wanting  _more_ . He didn't know how to  _get_ more, though, and one of his hands lifted, settling clumsily on Spock's face where his fingers spread into what felt like an approximation of the meld position. Sparks seemed to ignite beneath his fingertips, and Spock gave a sudden gasp through his teeth as his hips jerked hard once, twice.

 

“ _Jim_?”

 

“Let me in, Spock,” Jim panted, trying to mentally shove at the shields Spock had erected. “Please, I need you, let me in.”

 

The shields fell in a frantic, jumbled rush, and Jim's mind surged forward, wrapping itself around Spock's in a burst of pleasure that cascaded all the way down Jim's spine. He was aware, vaguely, that his hips were moving faster still, that Spock's fingers were digging into his ass now hard enough to bruise. Then his entire system overloaded and he came, hard enough that he felt as if he would turn inside out from the force of it. Spock's release came only moments later, spilling hot inside Jim's body, and they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap as they struggled for breath.

 

“Stay here,” Jim managed to slur when Spock seemed ready to pull away. “Stay.”

 

Spock settled again, rearranging them so that they weren't quite on top of each other and Jim's leg was no longer bent at an unnatural angle. His fingers skimmed lightly over Jim's temple, and Jim shivered.  
  
“Stay there, too,” he mumbled.

 

“As you say, _ashayam_ ,” Spock murmured.

 

Content and sated, Jim let himself sleep.  
  
  
[>>Part 7](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/83110.html)

 

 


	7. The Prophecy of Apollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part of my fill for [](http://rynne.livejournal.com/profile)[**rynne**](http://rynne.livejournal.com/) , who won my [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_japan**](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)  auction!  The first 3614 words here are all for you, bb; the rest is just gravy. ^_~

**Title:** The Prophecy of Apollo  
 **Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot (AU)  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** My cats own all, I own nothing.  They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse.  Cats, you make terrible agents!  Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.  
 **Summary:** AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth.  How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions?  It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it.  Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate.  Who will brave the monster's lair?  
 **Author's Note:** The last part of my fill for [](http://rynne.livejournal.com/profile)[**rynne**](http://rynne.livejournal.com/)  , who won my [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_japan**](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)   auction!  The first 3614 words here are all for you, bb; the rest is just gravy. ^_~

 

 

 

  


 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/67370.html) | [Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68507.html) | [Part 3](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/68726.html) | [Part 4](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/69503.html) | [Part 5](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/75580.html) | [Part 6](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/81562.html)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim was, technologically speaking, mired hip-deep in code when an alert popped up in the corner of the screen.  An incoming message; for a moment, his heart leapt into his throat.  It had been nearly a week since he had sent his message to Pike, long past the time when he had expected a response.  He opened the window eagerly, surprised to see that the message was tagged as audio-only.

 

“Jim.”  It was Spock's voice that flowed out of the speakers, and Jim felt a moment's disappointment before he found himself smiling at the familiar sound.  “What are you doing?”

 

“Fixing some holes in your security.”  Jim grinned at the screen and went back to work.  “Just because you're hidden away up here is no excuse to get sloppy.  And I have these recon shots to look through; no need to broadcast your weak spots to anyone who might be watching.”

 

There was silence over the line for a long moment.  Then, “That is . . . thoughtful of you, Jim.”

 

“Yeah, well.  It’s something to do.”

 

“I had been under the impression that our security here was quite adequate,” Spock said, and Jim rolled his eyes.

 

“Sure, it is.  But _adequate_ is really just a shaky step up from _worthless_ when you have someone who wants to get in.  If I’m going to be sitting here figuring out how to cover your weak points, I don’t really like the idea of anyone else being able to get a look at what they are.  So if you have a problem with me trying to keep you a little bit safer—”

 

“I have no quarrel with you protecting me, _ashayam_ ,” Spock said warmly, and Jim caught himself with a blush.

 

“It’s not . . . look, you don’t have to make it a whole thing,” he said uncomfortably.  “It’s just . . .”  He sighed and rubbed at his eyes.  “I . . . care about you, and I want you to be safe.  But don’t read too much into this.  Please.  This doesn’t mean I’ve decided to stay.”

 

“Have you decided to go?”

 

Jim could only stare at the screen.  What could he say?  That he didn’t know?  He remembered the letter from Spock’s mother, her request that Jim break her son’s heart quickly if he was going to do it, and couldn’t bring himself to offer what might only be false hope.  Even if the idea of leaving had begun to hurt; even if the warm affection that was always humming now at the back of his mind and the nights spent wrapped around his lover were proving addictive.

 

“You do not have to answer now,” Spock said gently, and Jim flushed.  “You have begun to consider staying with me as an appealing idea, and that is more than I had hoped for once.  I will let you return to your work now, _ashayam_.”

 

“I—”  Jim scowled at the screen, cursing under his breath as the connection was severed.  “You get that guilt thing from your mom, don’t you?” he muttered, and went back to looking for chinks in Spock’s technological armor.

 

It was, Jim had to admit, better than simply adequate; whoever had designed these firewalls knew what they were doing.  But he’d bet his ass this was a Vulcan’s work.  From a technical standpoint it was damn close to perfect, but it showed an almost deliberate lack of imagination, and imagination was something that hackers like Jim possessed in spades.  As long as _he_ could find holes to exploit, he would assume that someone else would be able to, as well.

 

He spent another hour sifting through code before he was satisfied enough to stop, and sat back with a stretch and a sigh.  In the corner he had claimed as his own, I-Chaya lifted his head with a soft, hopeful sound.

 

“We’ll go out and play some more in a little while,” Jim promised him with a smile, and the _sehlat_ settled down again with a resigned huff of breath.  He had taken to following Jim inside after their morning exercise in the main courtyard, but Jim suspected I-Chaya was still hoping to that they’d go back to playing all day the way they had when Jim had first arrived.  In consolation, Jim abandoned the desk and hunkered down to spend a few minutes petting and scratching until the _sehlat_ was nearly catatonic in bliss beneath his hands.

 

When he finally stood again and returned to the terminal, Jim ignored the waiting folder of recon photos and opened up his mail account on the slender hope that perhaps Pike had sent a response when he wasn’t looking, but there were no new messages waiting.  Maybe he should try again, Jim thought.  His first message may have been intercepted, but with his new security updates to Spock’s system, that shouldn’t be something he’d have to worry about anymore.  He decided to run another check, just to be sure.

 

The scan of the local systems went smoothly enough, but when Jim tried to connect to an outside server he came up with nothing but static.  He tried again; still nothing.

 

Well, shit, he thought, trying one more time on the off-chance that it might yield a different result.  No such luck, and though irritated, Jim wasn’t really surprised.  One of the more irritating consequences of working on Vulcan was the periodic storms that could block out satellite signals for days at a time.  If you were lucky, your signal would get knocked out by a storm a few hundred miles away; if you weren’t so lucky, you realized soon enough that a communications blackout was a far more trivial worry than the wind and sand that would bury you if you weren’t careful.

 

At least that explained why he hadn’t heard from Pike yet.  If there was a storm in the area he’d be lucky if his team even received his first message.  It felt distinctly odd to have something like this sprung on him so suddenly; he was used to tracking the weather in the area, to knowing at least a day in advance when something like this was coming.  The fact that the rest of the unit would already be prepared was a comfort, if only a small one.  Jim had to get his message through; if Pike was stupid enough to come after him, the odds of everyone getting out alive were slim to none.  He’d seen firsthand how fiercely Vulcans guarded their mates, and he doubted anyone besides the Humans in their unit would be willing to challenge Spock’s claim.

 

With a frustrated sigh, Jim closed out the program.  There was nothing to be done but wait.  Eventually the storm would clear, and hopefully Pike wouldn’t want to move his people until it had.

 

Jim had played two games of chess against the computer before he admitted that he was stalling.  The folder of recon photos still sat unopened on the terminal’s desktop.  Vlorik was waiting for his analysis, willing to let Jim undertake his proposal of expanding their defensive zone beyond the fortress itself.  Yet Jim couldn’t quite bring himself to open the folder, knowing that once he did he would have to make a choice.  He could size up the weaknesses he saw, put together a strategy and make his plans to fortify them.  Or, he could deliberately leave a vulnerable area unchanged; build himself a back door to slip through.

 

He had to choose between freedom and safety.  His freedom; Spock’s safety, and the safety of everyone else who lived and worked in the fortress.

 

It should have been an easy choice to make.  Jim had responsibilities, friends, a _life_ to return to, and Spock had held this ground for years before Jim was even on this planet.  From a purely logical standpoint Jim knew that his input was unlikely to make a difference between life and death.  Still, he couldn’t help the urge to do everything in his power to keep Spock safe.  When he _did_ leave . . . if he left . . . _when_ he did, he wanted to do so knowing that Spock was well-protected.

 

Well.  There was no real rush.  He could take another day or two to consider it.  Maybe there was an option he just hadn’t seen yet.  With that in mind, he stood again and called to I-Chaya, who followed him happily back outside.

 

It was interesting, Jim thought later as he made his way up to his room after dinner, how much easier it was now to navigate his way through the building’s maze of corridors.  He still got lost if he tried to remember the way, but in the past few days he realized that if he let himself go by instinct, taking the way that _felt_ right, he always ended up exactly where he’d meant to go.  Though he hadn’t asked Spock about it, he was almost certain that it was an effect of their bond being unshielded again.  Spock had tried to filter it at first, and had been genuinely surprised when Jim had gotten angry.  It was still a strange sensation, having someone else in his head, but Jim no longer felt easy without it.  Just another complication, he thought wearily, because if it meant giving this up, could he really bring himself to leave?

 

He was so lost in his own thoughts that it took him a moment after opening his door to realize that the only light in the room was the cool bluish light of the lantern he was carrying.  The ceiling lamp was dark; the window was shuttered; and in the shadows, Jim could feel Spock waiting.

 

“It’s early for you to visit,” Jim managed after a moment.  His mouth had gone as dry as the desert.  If he just stepped forward . . . he had a light, just a few steps and he could finally see—

“I could not wait.”  Spock’s voice was already rough, his arousal bleeding across their bond and making Jim ache with the sudden force of it.  “I need you,” Spock said quietly.  “Turn out the light.”

 

“Spock,” Jim began to protest.

 

“Please, Jim.”

 

Against the gentle pleading in Spock’s voice, Jim had no defense.  He turned the knob on the base until the light faded away completely, and braced himself, prepared to be met with the sudden force of his bondmate’s desire.  Instead he felt the lantern taken easily from his grip and a warm hand wrap around his, pulling him gently forward.

 

Spock’s kiss, when it fell against Jim’s lips, was slow and deep, insistent but unfailingly gentle as he coaxed Jim’s mouth open.  His hands slid over Jim’s body, savoring the feel of it before clever fingers began to loosen his clothing.  It was the first time Jim had been dressed in Spock’s presence, and he felt himself flush slightly at the realization.  He felt strangely vulnerable now as Spock slowly stripped the clothes from his body, and kissed back more fiercely to distract himself.

 

Jim wondered, as Spock lavished him with careful, almost reverential attention, what had brought about this sudden shift in his attentions.  He wanted Jim no less fiercely than ever; Jim could feel the truth of that in his mind, in the leashed tension of Spock’s body pressing him down onto the bed.  But no matter how Jim gasped and moaned and demanded, Spock’s touches stayed slow, stayed gentle, running over every inch of Jim’s body in teasing, taunting strokes.  By the time Spock began to press inside of him Jim was trembling, his skin was slick with a think layer of sweat, and he was so hard he felt like he would explode at any moment.  He clung to Spock in a desperate attempt to anchor himself, lost in the silky fall of hair against his shoulders, and the feel of hard muscle beneath his hands, and the steady, deliberate thrust of Spock’s hips.

 

Afterwards Jim felt as though the world had somehow gone soft around the edges, and he sprawled bonelessly against Spock’s side as Spock ran a hand slowly up and down Jim’s arm.

 

“This was a surprise,” Jim murmured when he felt confident in his ability to speak again, sifting his fingers through the coarse hair that covered Spock’s chest and smothering a snicker against warm skin.  “I didn’t know Vulcans ever got body hair this thick.”  He felt Spock tense beneath his touch, and frowned in confusion.

 

“I believe that is a legacy of my Human heritage,” Spock said stiffly.

 

Jim let out a soft sigh.  “Relax,” he said, scraping his teeth over Spock’s neck and smirking at the surprised shiver it evoked.  “I like it.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

Spock’s arms tightened around him, and Jim let himself be tugged closer.  The languor that had settled in his limbs was fading, replaced with increased awareness of the hot, strong body against his.  Jim’s mouth drifted up, his tongue darting out to trace the pointed tip of Spock’s ear before wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently.  Spock shuddered at the sensation, and Jim trailed his lips down again until he found Spock’s mouth.

 

“It’s still early,” he said against Spock’s lips.  “You may need to try a little harder to wear me out.”

 

Spock let out a groan like he was dying and wrapped his hands around Jim’s shoulders, pulling him gently away.  “I would like nothing better, _k’diwa_.  But I can not stay tonight.”

 

Jim knew that his frown was perilously close to a pout, but he couldn’t seem to help it.  “Why not?”

 

“I have other duties I must attend to.”  Spock brushed his fingers lightly over Jim’s once before he rolled away and the bed shifted as his weight left it.  “The Archenida clan has begun to move against us again, and this storm makes it difficult to coordinate our defenses.  I have ordered several teams out already, but with no way to tell whether or not they have been successful, I must coordinate redundancy plans as well.”

 

“Where _is_ the storm, anyway?” Jim asked, letting himself fall back against the bed as he pretended not to be straining his ears for the sound of Spock dressing again.  “Is it going to hit us here?”

 

“Almost certainly, unless it loses strength when it hits the mountains.  We are close to the K’fai’ei Pass; it is likely to funnel through there and reach us in a matter of days.  I only regret that it is unlikely to pass any farther East.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“The main Archenida host is forming in the mountains just south of Shi’Kahr.  It would be a great convenience if they were caught out so far from shelter; it would cripple their forces without ours having to do a thing.”  His fingers brushed against Jim’s again.  “You need not worry, Jim,” he said.   “We are well-fortified here.  The storm is no real threat.”  His lips pressed softly against Jim’s forehead.  “Rest well.”

 

Jim felt more than heard him leave, but his attention was still fixed on what Spock had said.  He was freaking out, yes, but not about the storm, and not for himself.

 

Just south of Shi’Kahr, Spock had said.

 

The same area where Pike’s unit had set up camp.

 

Jim still remembered the one time, when they’d first come to Vulcan, that they’d had the misfortune to find themselves between two clashing Vulcan clans.  The fact that they had been unaffiliated with either side didn’t matter; a raiding party had found them in disputed territory, and anyone not bearing their clan’s colors was declared fair game.  They’d lost Olsen then, and Mitchell and Moreau, plus a dozen Vulcans whose names Jim hadn’t even had the time to learn.  If the Archenida found the unit they’d be just as ruthless.  And with the storm interfering with anything that relied on satellites, the Chekov’s scanners might not be able to spot them.  The kid was a genius, but even he couldn’t make a scanner work without a signal.

 

Jim rolled out of bed, fumbling along the wall until he found the light switch, and winced in pain when he managed to activate the bright overhead lamp.  His clothes were laying in a jumbled heap on the floor; long years of training had him pulling them on and lacing up his boots in less than a minute.  He snatched up the lantern from the table and nearly bolted from the room.

 

It took him longer than it might have to find the landing pad.  If he was accessing Spock’s memories of the building’s layout to find his way around, he wasn’t sure how aware of it Spock might be, and Jim couldn’t afford to tip him off.  He let himself be guided to his study where he grabbed the PADD Vlorik had found for him, then to the kitchen.  He managed to find several sturdy containers and fill them with water; Jim grabbed some bread and a few pieces of fruit as well and wrapped the lot of it in a towel.  One of his hypos and a few spare cartridges were still tucked securely in one of his vest pockets; that would have to be enough.

 

He made a few wrong turns after he stopped letting his subconscious lead the way, but eventually Jim found himself stepping out into bright Vulcan starlight with several rows of waiting speeders in front of him.  Afraid to take too long in case someone found him, he did a hasty check of the closest one to make sure there was fuel and that it didn’t seem likely to explode or otherwise malfunction.  As satisfied as he was going to get, he wedged his bundle of food and water between his feet, started the ignition sequence and took off almost immediately.

 

D’kum’Ulcha was no less creepy by night, he soon discovered, and though he made it through more quickly this time than the last, the winds that whipped around his head seemed to scream now, tugging and shoving at him and nearly sending him crashing into a wall over a dozen times.  Jim just set his teeth and angled the speeder into the force of it, and allowed himself a breath of relief when he finally emerged into the open desert.

 

He stuck close to the mountains, using them to guide his progress as well as—he hoped—shelter his movement.  Moving by night seemed like his best bet; Vulcan night vision might be excellent, but trying to travel by day struck him as just short of suicidal.  There was no question in his mind that Spock would come after him.  All he could do, then, was try to put as much distance between them as possible and hope that Spock would pass him over during the day.

 

Every few hours Jim paused to drink some of his water and to fish out his PADD.  There was rarely a uniform blanket of interference from storms like these; if he could find a patch that was clear enough, he might be able to contact Pike or Number One without trying to fly all the way back to their base camp.  If he could manage that, he could . . . what?  Arrange for them to meet him halfway there?  Go back?  He still had no idea what he would do, no idea even what he _wanted_ to do.  All he knew was what he _had_ to do.  And so he kept going.

 

Jim had known, almost to the moment, when Spock realized what had happened; a torrent of tortured emotion flooded into Jim’s head, muffled by grief or distance but still almost crippling in its intensity.  Anger, disappointment, fear, and a hurt so great Jim didn’t know if he could bear it.  He had to stop again for a moment, using the opportunity to try his PADD again but almost grateful when it didn’t work.  If he’d had to try to speak around the aching lump in his throat, Jim doubted he could have kept his composure.

 

It wasn’t until he had stopped in the foothills, with dawn only an hour away, that he had the time to be struck how very easy it had been for him to leave.  The corridors had all been fortuitously empty; the kitchen had been deserted; there had been no one guarding the speeders, no one monitoring his presence at all.  In all the times he had half-planned his escape, Jim had always imagined that there would be more obstacles.  _Any_ obstacles.  If he’d realized it would be this easy he probably would have left the first day he could walk normally.

 

Spock didn’t want him to leave; that much Jim was absolutely sure of.  The staff had been explicitly instructed not to give him anything that might assist him in that goal.  But though they couldn’t actively help him, had they simply . . . let him go?  Were they all so _unsettled_ by Spock, he wondered as he took a long drink of water, that they would simply stand by without so much as a word while his bondmate ran away?

 

Jim shook himself.  It was a _good_ thing that no one had interfered.  He had to get to his friends, to warn them of the danger they were in.  Spock would understand that eventually.  And if he didn’t . . . if he didn’t, it didn’t bear thinking about.

 

Jim didn’t hear the _Zephyr_ coming until it was almost on him.  Too late to go for the speeder, then; he might as well try to outrun it on foot, for all the good it would do him.  He got to his feet, though, determined not to go back without a fight.  His friends needed him, and _well, I tried_ wasn’t going to be good enough.

 

As the ship touched down, Jim could feel his heart racing.  Not in fear, though; he was startled to realize that despite being able to feel exactly how furious Spock was at his desertion, his anger wasn’t something that Jim feared.  What he felt, beyond his original frustration and anxiety, was anticipation.  Excitement.  The sky was getting lighter now; let Spock try to hide from him out here, Jim thought, almost gleeful.  His breath caught in his throat as the hatch opened and a tall, lean figure stepped out, rocks and sand grinding loudly beneath his boots and a palpable sense of astonished fury hung around him like a cloak.

 

Jim felt the difference before he saw it.  There was no sense of familiarity there, no jolt of recognition in the back of his mind.  He stared at Sakkint in stunned disappointment, and was surprised to see the expression reflected back at him.  For a moment they simply stood facing each other as they both seemed to absorb the fact of the other’s presence.

 

When Sakkint spoke, Jim nearly flinched.  The angry growl of unfamiliar words shot up Jim’s spine like lightning, sparking in his reptilian hindbrain and flooding his system with adrenaline.  _Fight or run_ , it screamed at him, _fight or run_ , and it took every ounce of his control to keep his feet firmly planted where he stood.  Sakkint cut off suddenly, snarled something under his breath, and paused to glare at Jim.

 

“I forget,” he said after a moment in heavily accented Standard.  “You have been through the city; your translation chip will no longer be working.”

 

Jim lifted his chin even as his body slipped into loose-limbed readiness.  “That’s hardly the worst of my worries right now.”

 

Sakkint continued to glare.  “When I took you to Lord Spock, I believed you to be intelligent.  _Here_ , I thought, _is at least no fool_.  A pity to be proven wrong.”

 

“So sorry to disappoint you,” Jim spat back, “but you have no _idea_ —”

 

“You _must_ be a fool,” Sakkint said, talking over Jim as though he hadn’t even spoken, “to say nothing of the question of your honor, to have chosen _this time_ to make your escape.”  He raised an arm to point behind Jim, in the direction he had been traveling.  “The K’fai’ei Pass begins three miles from here, and a storm makes its way through even now.  Is my lord so terrible to you that would prefer death to remaining at his side?”

 

“No!”  Jim’s hands balled into fists.  “I don’t . . . I didn’t realize the storm was so close.  I had to—”

 

“I had been glad to receive news of you.  Not only had you survived, it was said, you had _prospered_.  Lord Spock’s household speaks highly of you, of how altered he has been since your arrival.  Is this how you repay their respect; by seeking your own demise, and the demise of your bondmate?”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ lecture me,” Jim shouted, the sound of his fury bouncing off of rock and stone until the very air seemed to echo with rage.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, how much I wanted—”  He clenched his jaw shut and paced away and back, struggling to control his anger.  “I have friends in danger; I can’t just stand back and _hope_ that they’re okay.  Do you understand that at all?  If it means I get hurt, well, sometimes that’s just the cost of doing business.”  He stopped, glaring at Sakkint.  “And what the hell do you mean, the death of my bondmate?” Jim snapped.  “Spock isn’t in any danger; he couldn’t even be bothered to come after me himself.”

 

“My lord does not leave Tsatik-Veh,” Sakkint said.  His anger seemed to have fled in one of the sudden shifts in mood that Vulcans were prone to, and now he merely regarded Jim with narrow-eyed consideration.  “Of this you should be well aware.  It is why he has his _kar-lans_ , his generals.  I was reporting back to him when he learned of your disappearance; he commanded me to retrieve you, and that is what I shall do.”

 

“Well, that’s great.”  Jim ground his teeth.  “So if he’s still safe and sound at home, what did you mean—”

 

“Did you not hear what the _maat-fam_ T’Pring declared when we came to your camp?  She would have sought her own death had she been forced to bond with my lord, if only for the comfort of the knowledge that her pain would also be his.  You are joined to him now; your pain is his, as his is yours.  Your death may not kill him, but it may certainly make him wish to die.”

 

Jim felt himself go pale.  He had forgotten until now, but he did remember what T’Pring had said, and the tightly-leashed fury in her voice when she declared that she would gladly die just to cause Spock pain.  If a bond between those who hated each other was that powerful, how much worse might it be between two who . . .

 

“Come back with me, Jim,” Sakkint said quietly, and though it wasn’t quite a request Jim nodded his agreement anyway.

 

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” he said quietly, and Sakkint fixed him with that same measuring look.

 

“I believe you.”

 

Jim continued to try for a signal as they flew back, though he knew it was almost certainly hopeless.  If the storm was as close as Sakkint had said, the odds of getting through it were slim bordering on none.  Jim was starting to feel sick.  He’d been forced to make the choice he’d been avoiding at all costs: save Spock, or save his friends.  His family.  Except that at some point, Spock had begun to feel like family, too.  Jim didn’t know when it had happened; all he knew was that if it was in his power to save Spock, he would do it no matter the cost.  That he might have to pay with the lives of everyone else in the universe he actually cared about, though . . . he wondered if he would have hated himself any less if he’d chosen them instead.  A moot point; given the chance, he’d do the exact same thing again, and he knew it.

 

“Am I going to have to go through the city again?” Jim asked when they had almost reached their destination.  He wasn’t exactly wild about the idea, not after what he had heard and felt on his way out, and he couldn’t help a sigh of relief when Sakkint shook his head.

 

“Lord Spock is no longer in his Time.  He is furious,” he said with a significant look at Jim, “but he is not yet mad.”

 

“Great,” Jim muttered.  “That’s comforting.”

 

Frustrated with his continued lack of success, Jim tossed his PADD onto the console.  It was pure chance, then, that he happened to see the readout on the display it landed next to.  He leaned over to examine the information.

 

“There’s someone down there,” he said abruptly, turning to the window and trying to scan the ground belowbut his view wasn’t the best.  “You’ve got a lifesign on the monitor.”

 

Sakkint glanced down at the display with mild interest.  “Indeed.”  He punched in a series of commands, and the monitor switched to a view of the ground below, shot from the cameras on the underside of the craft.  The image narrowed in on a small, dark shape at the mouth of the main road into the city, flat and unmoving.  “A supplicant,” Sakkint declared.  “Making his way to Tsatik-Veh.”

 

“He’s not moving.”

 

“Then Vlorik will send a team down for the body.”

 

“Like hell,” Jim snapped.  “Turn around.”

 

Sakkint looked at him, surprised.  “Why?”

 

“Because we’re going to take him back with us.”

 

“That is not the way this is done,” Sakkint protested.  “The journey to Tsatik-Veh is a test of strength and courage; only the—”

 

“You know what, I really don’t give a shit.  I’ve left too many people behind already.  Turn around now, or I swear to any god you want I’ll go down there myself, storm and Spock be damned, and carry him up on my back.”

 

For a moment Sakkint merely stared at him.  Finally, however, he set his jaw and began to turn back to the edge of the city.  “I begin to think that you may actually be more trouble than you are worth.”

 

Jim smiled tightly.  “So I’ve heard.”

 

Despite his complaints, Sakkint stepped out when they landed to help Jim carry the man into the _Zephyr_.  He was young; hardly older than Chekov, Jim would guess, or the equivalent in Vulcan age.  There was a filthy, stained bandage wrapped over his eyes, and even without removing it Jim nearly gagged at the smell that came from underneath.  He was thin enough that Jim probably could have moved him by himself, all wind-cracked skin and fragile bones.  They laid him on one of the benches in the back; Jim stayed with him while Sakkint took them up again, and tried to help him drink some of the water he still had on him.  Most of it ended up sluicing down his chin, turning the dust on his robes to mud, but a small portion made it past his chapped lips and down his throat.  Jim was thinking about trying to squeeze out some of the juice from the fruit he’d taken when a faint settling sensation and the sudden quiet of the engine told him they’d arrived.

 

When the hatch opened Sakkint stepped out first, speaking in rapid Vulcan to Vlorik and a host of others who were standing in wait.  Jim saw several pairs of eyebrows raise, and was almost certain he heard his name mentioned more than once.  By the time Sakkint finished, however, Karon and Sark, who Jim remembered from their hand-to-hand drills earlier in the week, were stepping past him to take the young Vulcan from the _Zephyr_.

 

“Where are they taking him?” Jim asked sharply.

 

“Do not fear,” Vlorik said cooly.  “We will see to his health and comfort, as best we can.  My Lord Spock has requested to see you in your quarters immediately upon your arrival.”

 

Jim nodded.  The closer they had come to the fortress the clearer Spock’s feelings in his mind had become.  He was well aware of why Spock wanted to see him, and he didn’t imagine that it was going to be pleasant.

 

With a nod of farewell to Sakkint, Jim went inside to greet his bondmate.

 

 


End file.
